A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [40]
Warren speaks. The Bald Man stares.
Are you all right?
I nod.
Do you need help?
I shake my head.
I’m going to get someone.
I speak.
No.
You need help.
No.
James, you need help.
I stand. I am unsteady.
I decide what I need. Not you.
I take a deep breath and I stumble to the sink and I turn on the water and I wash my face and I clean the vomit out of my mouth. When I finish, I turn off the water and I turn around. Warren is staring at me and the Bald Man is staring at me. I walk past them and I walk out of the Bathroom. Warren follows me out and he heads to his area of the Room.
Let me at least give you a shirt.
I look at my shirt. It is white and brown and red. Covered with streaks of bile and patches of shit that I have never seen before and streams of blood.
Here.
Warren tosses me a shirt. I catch it. It is a starched white oxford. I look at it and I look at him. He speaks.
It’s the only clean shirt I’ve got left.
I look at the shirt. It is not a shirt I would wear. I laugh and I look back to Warren.
Thank you.
He laughs.
No problem.
I take off my T-shirt and I toss it on the floor next to my bed and I put on the oxford and it is huge. It envelops my withered frame like a tarp and it hangs near my knees. I roll the sleeves to the middle of my forearms and I run my hands down its front. It is stiff from the starch, but soft beneath. The cotton is expensive and finely woven, probably made in some faraway Country. It is the cleanest, nicest thing I have worn in as long as I can remember, and I feel as if I don’t deserve to have it on my sick body. Warren is sitting on the edge of his bed clipping his toenails, a pair of black socks sit next to him. I walk over and I stop in front of him and I run my hands down the front of the cotton. I speak.
It’s very nice. I’ll take good care of it.
Warren smiles.
Don’t worry about it.
I will worry about, and I appreciate you lending it to me. Thank you.
Don’t worry about it.
I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.
Warren nods and I turn and I leave the Room and I walk through the Unit. Men are doing their morning jobs, getting ready for the day, walking to breakfast. Roy is standing in front of the Job Board with his friend. I walk past him.
James.
I keep walking, don’t look back.
You still have to do the Group Toilets.
I keep walking and I don’t look back and I raise my middle finger over my shoulder so he can see it.
James.
I keep my finger raised.
JAMES.
I make my way through the Halls toward the Dining Hall. With each step I take, a profound need for a drink or something harder or both or everything grows on me. My feet get heavy and my pace slows. My mind is filled with one thought and it runs through over and over and over. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up.
I walk through the Glass Corridor that separates the men and the women and I get in line. I can smell the food, it is breakfast food. Eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast. It smells fucking good. I see the oatmeal in a big crock off to the side. Fuck that oatmeal. Disgusting gray mushy bullshit. I can smell the food, it is breakfast food. Eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast.
I move forward. I move closer, closer, closer. My need to get fucked up has grown exponentially. It has grown to the point that it is no longer a thought and it has grown to the point that I don’t have any thoughts. There is just a base instinct. Get something. Fill me. Get something. Fill me.
Someone bumps into me and I look at them and the Girl I met a few days ago is standing in front of me and she’s dropped something. Get something. Her name is Lilly. Fill me. I pick up whatever she dropped and I see it’s a small piece of folded white paper. Get something. I hand it back to her. Fill me. She starts to say something.