My name is Cain Mershaw and I am an alcoholic.
With much love and consideration :).
Chapter One: Addict
My name is Cain Mershaw and I am an alcoholic.
My alcohol of choice is heroin and I could glorify it, worship it... In fact I already have. Heroin has made me it's slave, it's bitch and before I never had a problem with that fact. I love heroin as much as I hate it. And I hate it with so much passion. The way it has destroyed everything in my life that I have ever loved and everyone in my life has grown to hate me. Not dislike me but actually hate me.
I have done things I would never do in my right mind if heroin wasn't the reason.
You would never catch me holding up a liqour store with a shotgun for anything BUT heroin.
Heroin heroin heroin.
Two years sober and it still plagues my mind the way it did when I was first taken away from it and for it.
I looked at myself in the dirty bathroom mirror. My face was fuller, my dark brown hair long and surprisingly healthy for jail washed hair. My skin held a healthy glow. Two years ago I did not look like this, I did not look this healthy.
I looked into my bright blue eyes and smiled.
It was only a matter of time before I jump back on that train of self destruction and blissful yet miserable life. And I am perfectly content with that.
I walked out of the gas station bathroom somewhere in New Jersey, somewhere... I looked around this small town. I had heard quite a few times that this state was god's blind spot. It can't be I thought as I looked around at the suburban looking town. This can't be anything like South Central or Watts back in Los Angeles. This place looked similar to my hell.
Little families happily holding hands, skipping merrily to McDonald's. I for one look past the happiness of the family and think of what goes on behind closed doors. Mom and dad holding their what appears to be a six year old's hand. Little Tommy doesn't realize right now that outside of his perfect world mom and dad are most likely going to get a divorce within the next ten years. The romantic looks that mom is giving dad will soon fade to looks of betrayl and hurt after she finds out that he is going to be sleeping with his secretary five years down the road.
Oh but she will spend a few years or so trying to work things out but her efforts will be wasted because men think for some reason that they can keep a double life or a simple affair under wraps when they really just can't. And women just get so guilty when it comes to cheating that they tell their spouse after a year or so that they have been unfaithful.
I just assume the worst of people but I haven't been wrong about a single person yet.
"Your father left me specific instructions for you Ms. Mershaw."
I nodded as he handed me the key to the large two story home that my father left me.
"Your father was a great man Ms. Mershaw. He really got himself together."
I scoffed at that, from what I remember my father was not a great man but apparently he had turned his life around in the last three years that I had been absent from his life.
"It appears so...". I sighed.
"If you need anything you can always give me a call. Day or night, no matter the hour".
As my father's childhood friend walked out of the house, memories of my father flooded my mind.
"Oh and the neighbors, if you hear any commotion don't worry. The boys have a band or something of that sort so don't panic if you hear loud music or shouting or even things breaking it's just them being a nuisance".
That's what I needed, boys straight up trucking it. I shook my head after that thought. My jail/prison mentality needed some working on if I wanted to function in a "normal" society.
My father, Atticus Mershaw was anything but a great man from what I remember. I remember him like if it were yesterday. My memories of him are very detailed. Sometimes it feels like a movie playing in my head. The person that introduced me to the world of drugs was my father. Atticus was what I considered a big time drug dealer back when I was thirteen and when I first moved to L.A. he was the one who gave me the gift of a needle full of cocaine in my arm. I became his little project, his little doll. I bent any way that he wished and did everything that he wished. At first it was out of fear and then it became pure admiration. I admired the way he moved pounds upon pounds of cocaine, meth and heroin across the border from Mexico to the United States. I admired the way he dealt to people under the noses of many detectives and the police that were watching our home. I admired the White Power and the white man's world he had tried to etch into my body and mind. Up to a certain point it was pure bliss. I loved the drugs but the white power and the racism wasn't for me...
Oh how I loved the drugs, the partying, the admiration and fear others had towards me because of who I was and who I came from. I loved it until I found the drug I couldn't put down and when I one day decided to tell my father that I was dating a man of Hispanic desent. When I was fifteen my oh so wonderful life changed drastically into something I could not keep up with.
I decided to go to bed, I was tired physically and emotionally. My negative thoughts toward my father never really crossed my mind, not out there, and not in jail. Not even when he wrote me while I was in jail. Being sober and out of jail was the worst thing that could happen to me.
I found the couch in the living room and curled up into myself. Thinking of killing myself and how easy it would be. A gun to the head, "bang", blood splatter on the wall, the end. I was in my father's home and it made me feel uneasy. The floor was not stained with blood like I had remembered it. On the coffee table there were no spoons with drug related residue burnt into it. No shoe laces in every corner or black soot marks on the tables. No used needles littered everywhere. This didn't feel like Atticus Mershaw's home. It felt like a whole different hell. One that I was more uncomfortable with. I brought my bare knees to my chest. I didn't even bother to change out of my clothes I was released in. Not even before I got on the plane here, I felt a disgust in myself. I probably smelled, I did smell. I let sleep take over me, to dream of unwanted dreams of the past and I began to cry.
I missed my life that wasn't much of a life, I missed jail because I didn't have to think about my emotions because I learned over time not to feel but most of all I missed sweet, mouth watering heroin.