Belle 
This story is dedicated to those who suffer from addiction, and to their families
Part 1
‘I used to wonder, sometimes, exactly what it was that compelled me to rise every morning and to live every day. I often found myself questioning my as to why I continued to breathe, or how my heart found the strength to drive the blood through my veins. To be honest, I never wanted myself to go on. Truly, I waited eagerly for my last breath. I wanted it all to stop, the chaos, the pain… I longed for death. Whatever, or whoever, it was that kept me alive back then, I may never know…’
During the first few seconds of waking, the same question crossed his mind. “Why?”
Why…the definition of the word is primarily a question concerning the cause or the reason for which something is done. Many people wonder ‘why?’ Adults, children. “Why is the sky blue?” or “Why do birds have feathers?” or even more frequently nowadays: “Why are the gas prices so high?”
However, he wondered: “Why do I exist?”
To him, his entire existence and the meaning of, was a mystery that could not be solved by even the greatest of sleuths. It was one enormous question mark. An empty interrogative. Every morning of every day, he asked himself the same question. And every morning of every day, he drew only another blank.
Ian laid awake in bed, staring up at the motionless ceiling fan with glazed green eyes. He did not want to rise.
“Rise and shine, butter biscuit!” a voice shouted over the intercom. When there was no reply, the same voice said more seriously,”Alright, seriously, Ian, it’s time to open, man, come on.”
Ian rolled his eyes as he opened them again, the woman by his side climbing over him and walking to the bathroom. Pressing the button on the machine, Ian grunted, “Who died and made you boss?”
“Judging by the sound of your voice…” Walt huffed, “You.”
“Just for that you’re now unemployed,” Ian snorted.
“Whatever, Sunshine,” Walt chuckled. He knew Ian well enough to know when he was playing around and when he was being serious, “Listen as self-proclaimed-assistant-vice- executive-part-time-co-manager of Warehouse Ink, inc., I am ordering you to get out of bed.”
“Walt, I will set you on fire!” Ian warned.
“Grumpy…” Walt grunted.
The woman walked back into the room, dressed in a pair of his boxers and his AC/DC T-shirt.
“Walt, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Ian huffed, clenching his teeth as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, turning off the intercom before Walt could reply.
The girl sat down beside him and kissed his lips tenderly as she draped his arms around his neck.
“Morning…” she murmured in his ear.
He only grunted and found her mouth with his own. She purred, but he disentangled himself from her arms and stood up, picking up a pair of jeans that laid crumpled on the floor.
“Do you really have to go now?” she whimpered.
“It’s noon…” he muttered.
Her brows furrowed when she realized he refused to look at her, not even to glance in her direction. She knew well enough that she was the subject furthest from his thoughts at all times. She knew he used her to extinguish the fire that burned within him for another that he could not have, or who would not have him. That morning, Ty could see the burning desire, the restless flame in the green of his bleary, bloodshot eyes, more clearly than she ever had before then. She would never be able to sate his hunger, or his thirst.
She had used him before, the same way that he still used her. But some where along the line, somehow she had managed to actually fall for this man. She felt trapped in a way. She wanted him to love her the way that she loved him, but half the time he did not acknowledge her presence. It hurt. And it made her wonder if this was what made the woman before her cast him aside after all those years…
Quietly, she watched as he slipped into a pair of abnormally loose fitting jeans and as he tied his red-paisley bandanna over his unruly brown hair. He retrieved a plastic baggy from his back pocket and looked at the white, powdery contents within it. His hands were trembling slightly as he balled his left hand into a fist and dumped a small mound onto the side of his hand. He closed one nostril with his forefinger and snorted in the cocaine with the other. Throwing back his head, he groaned and closed his eyes, allowing the drug to invade his senses.
He lit a cigarette and toked it twice before he looked at her. “What?”
She shook her head and looked away.
“Ty...” he sighed, sitting on the bed beside her as he plucked the cigarette from his lips, “Look, Ty, I’m sorry... Okay? I just... I can’t hang around.”
“I understand,” she sighed.
He felt guilty when he saw the tears welling up in his eyes. Why did he always do this? He smoothed back her hair and pressed his lips to her cheek, and then her neck. He looked at her again and smiled forcibly, “I’ll see you tonight, right?”
She grinned a little, too, and nodded, “Sure…”
When Ian came into his tattoo shop, his four employees straightened their backs and turned to face him. There was Tank, the veteran, who sat slouched over the drawing desk. He was a mountain of a man with sleeves of patriotic tattoos on either of his arms, and a nose ring.
Walt was scrawny, and unnaturally so. His left arm was painted with a dazzling dragon, and his right shoulder bore a four-leafed clover. His brother, Slim, happened to be the exact opposite in everything other than his skill with a tattoo gun and a piercing needle.
Joey, the only female in the outfit and Tank’s wife, wore a pink and white phoenix up her back and down her right arm, and her right forearm was sprinkled in stars of every size and color. Her eyebrow was pierced with a diamond, as was her navel.
Ian knew well enough that he fit in with his crew like a piece of puzzle fitted into the right space. But he sometimes hated his place among them.
“Morning, Boss,” said Tank.
Ian nodded and sat down at the desk in his own station.
“Is something wrong, Boss?” asked Joey, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves as a client sat down on a stool in her space.
“No... I’m fine...” he muttered, “Just having a time trying to wake up is all.”
“Rough night?” Walt guessed, grinning.
“That’s none of your business,” he replied, reaching for a pen when he realized his tattoo gun was out of its place and dripping with black ink, “Did some one mess with my gun?”
“You said that was none of our business,” joked Walt.
Ian began to say something, but was interrupted when the bell over the door rang. He looked up and then stood when he saw it was an angry woman.
“Uhh… Nyk, what are you doing here?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Don’t play stupid with me, Ian,” she warned, digging into the pockets of her shorts and slamming a piece of paper onto his desk.
Ian swallowed and looked at the others, and they immediately walked out, and into the rec-room, taking care to close the door. Scratching his head, Ian turned once more to Nykki.
“What the hell are you trying to pull?” she growled, pointing at the paper.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he snorted, picking it up, “Wait… what the hell is this? How’d you get one of my checks?”
“You sent it to me as alimony,” she said hotly.
“I did?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“What? You don’t remember?” she scoffed, her tone sardonic, “You were probably high when you sent it, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me… You’re probably high right now.”
“What’s it to you?” he grunted, taking up a pen, “How much did we agree on?”
“Four hundred and fifty, you know that,” she huffed, “You’ve bee writing these damn checks for over a year now, how could you not remember?”
“I’m high,” he retorted, scribbling the digits and his signature onto the blank check and then he stood up, “How are the boys?”
“They’re fine,” she replied, holding out her hand.
“Where are they now?” he asked, holding back the check.
She rolled her eyes, “That’s not important… Give me the check.”
“Answer the question,” he told her.
“Give me the check,” she repeated.
“Answer the question,” he said stubbornly.
They stared at one another, neither of them about to give in.
“Give me the check, Ian,” she huffed finally.
“No,” he said.
“Ian!” she cried.
“Where are my kids!” he shouted.
She flinched at the anger behind his tone. Licking her lips, she placed her hands on her hips.
“Answer the question,” he whispered hoarsely.
“They’re with my boyfriend,” she said finally.
His jaw slackened and he stared at her. She snatched the check out of his fingertips and tucked it back into her pocket, “I didn’t want to tell you until Saturday… But you screwed that up pretty much like you screwed up everything else, so why should I be surprised?”
He looked away from her, his anger building up within him at an alarming rate.
“Goodbye, Ian,” Nykki sighed, and with that, she walked out.
“Something wrong, Boss?” Tank asked when Ian walked into the rec-room.
“No, Tank, everything is just dandy,” Ian muttered with a sardonic tone. Then he huffed and opened the refrigerator, “I just want Saturday to hurry up and get here…”
Tank fell quiet and looked down at his forearms so that he could see the names that were inked on his wrists in a flowing script. Anthony. Michelle. His children. He turned his gaze again to Ian and swallowed, unable to imagine the pain that he must have been feeling. Tank’s entire world revolved around his children. His kids were the only things he had to look forward to coming home to at the end of every day. Ian was not even allowed to see his own children without a social worker present.
Just as Tank was beginning to feel a slight hint of sympathy for his friend it struck him, as it had many times before. It was Ian’s fault. Ian Darnelli was the only person who possessed the power to do anything about his situation. But he was just too far gone to even try anymore it seemed.
“Okay… Okay, here’s the thing…” Walt slurred, wiping his mouth as he passed the bottle of scotch to his brother, “Here’s what I have to say… I-If this whole thing that we’re doing right now was like…a bonus…or something…I would not complain…like…at all…” He picked up a joint, drew a toke from it and held his breath.
Slim passed the bottle to Ian, “Merry Christmas.”
After draining what was left in the bottle, Ian threw it against the wall so that it shattered into a million pieces.
“Whoa-ho!” Walt exclaimed, “Do that again, man!”
“Where’s that rig at?” Ian muttered, looking over the coffee table.
“Dude you just shot up,” Slim remarked.
“So?” Ian snorted.
“Here it is, Boss,” Walt said, giving him a syringe.
Ian hands trembled as he started to fumble with his lighter. Sweat beaded on his brow; his head ached. He knew he had waited too long and was impatient for release.
“Hold on, man,” said Walt, taking the lighter.
He effortlessly sparked and maintained a flame and held it underneath a spoon, which held a small pile of dull gray powder.
Before long, the powder became liquid, and the liquid began to boil. The drug simmered and boiled until fumes whisped into the open air. Ian set down the spoon and tore open a sterile rig. He filled the syringe almost half-full. Walt helped Ian to tighten a belt around his upper arm, while Ian lit himself a cigarette and began to smoke as he tapped his fingers to the vein in his arm.
He then stuck the needle into his arm and leaned back. Slim winced when the clear liquid inside the syringe’s barrel became suddenly red and looked away, his stomach turning.
Drawing in a deep breath, rolling his eyes back into their sockets, welcoming the rush of sublime euphoria. He turned to watch the cartoons on the television.
The cartoons appeared to melt at first, and then they blurred and began to mix into oblong shapes and sizes. Ian only stared as his heart gradually began to slow its pace and the colors of the cartoons became effervescent. A weak grin came onto his face and something that may have paced for a laugh escaped his throat.
He started when Walt brushed against his leg while reaching for the box of Twinkies. Then the room was silent save the cartoons.
Walt stuffed an entire Twinkie into his mouth and started to unwrap another, “Holy God these things are incredible… Slim, eat one… Do we have any chips?”
Ian closed his eyes, his breath slowing.
“Dude, I think Ian’s done for today,” Slim muttered, glancing at his employer.
Joey walked in and looked at Ian, cocking her head to one side. She shook her head at him.
“I can’t believe you guys let him do this to himself,” she said to Walt and Slim.
Ian pressed his lips together and tilted his head up toward the sun. He liked the warm feeling of the rays on his skin, finding it rather soothing and refreshing. However, on the inside, he felt turbulent, his mind consumed by thoughts of Nykki. Even imagining her with another man filled him with… Anger? Rage? Fury? The words to describe the tempestuous emotions that flamed within his chest escaped him. There were no words. Nothing could describe that feeling.
Walt plopped down beside him with a soft pretzel in one hand and a Coke in the other. He passed the soda to Ian, who sipped a little from the straw and looked at Walt, “This isn’t Cola…”
“Coke and rum,” Walt chuckled, “But there it way more rum than Coke.”
Ian shook his head and sipped from the straw again, only longer this time.
He swallowed and looked out at the ocean again. Walt could tell he was thinking about something serious.
“What’s eatin’ you, Boss?” Walt asked him after awhile.
“Nothing,” Ian grunted, pulling the straw in and out of the cup absentmindedly.
The silence between them was filled in by the sounds of the waves breaking against the shore, the neighboring beach bums and the gulls crying above. Ian gulped dryly and cleared his throat. He licked his lips and sat up straight.
“Where do we go from here, Walt?” he whispered.
Walt blinked, confused by the question, “What do you mean?”
“Like… After we’re done living what happens?” he asked without looking at him, “Where do we go? I mean… Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? Or is there just…nothing? A deep dark abyss that everyone just floating around for the rest of eternity? Is there even an eternity? What if…What if when we die that’s…that’s just it and we’re dead? There’s no more after this…?”
Walt stared at him and reached for the cup, “Dude, the alcohol and the coke ain’t mixing very well… You’re really starting to bring me down…”
Ian pushed his hand away, rolling his eyes, “I just need to know…”
“What does it even matter?” Walt asked after a long while, “Any way it ends, we only have one shot at life… I say we live however we want to live and if there’s hell to pay, then fine… at least you lived.”
“So this is it…” Ian sighed, looking a the cup in his hand, “Life sucks and then you die…”
