I dreamt I went to the place where he lives, now, in addiction.
The house was Hollywood style, glass for walls, big living space with a bar counter where an actually loving home might build a kitchen. The entry was brick the color of dried blood, with two wide steps and a broad floor spread with wall to wall, once white carpet creeping across the large living area. Although spacious, the living room was spare, adorned with a single battered and stained couch, a weak lamp in one far corner. The air was still and fetid as if the air conditioning and had long since ceased functioning. Late afternoon sun glittered on the dust where it hung, spinning slowly like lost stars, stirred only slightly when the occupants breathed, or staggered aimlessly about.
Upon the bar was laid out a small feast for the corrupted soul, every substance an addict could yearn for.
I only saw four people. His oldest friend, hovering around him, whispering to him. A small, young oriental man completely strung out and barely comprehensible. A young woman-girl, with dark bruises beneath her eyes and track marks all along her bone thin arms. And my husband, hunched over and unreachable, eyes glazed and seeing only the desires dancing through his brain. His oldest friend was the ‘owner’, if anyone can be said to own hell.
The oldest friend drunkenly challenged me, standing protectively near the form of my husband where he stood near the entrance, as if he had just recently come in and was, as yet, uncertain. The oldest friend demanded to know if I had come to take my husband back. No, you can keep him. This is where he wants to be. I only need our vehicle back. He sold everything else for the service of his addiction, and I required the vehicle so I could keep my job. I have come for my car. The only thing I asked for, the only thing left for me to recover. I needed the keys from my addict. The woman-girl looked at me with her dead blue eyes, and did not speak, only picked some of the sores upon her arms and face. In the dim light of a far corner, the oriental man attempted to engage me in conversation, some odd monologue about the virtues of his addictive existence. I think he offered me a puff off his opium pipe, and smiled with his missing and blackened teeth. Craggy wrinkles ran down his young face. My husband’s old friend went back behind the bar, to serve up more addict supply. He kept an eye on me, suspicious, frowning.
My husband didn’t even notice when I reached into his faded pants pocket and gently took the keys.
When I left by the front door, I walked around the outside of addict house along the perfectly grassy slope. I could see all the house. It was mostly a large roof, shingled with aging cedar. A thin spire rose from far side. Like this was once a church, a modern Evangelic type of overbearing, monolithic design. The car park was around back, down the concrete stairs. While I had been pondering the building, the addicts had taken all their fancy cars and surrounded my vehicle. Mine was a minivan, like the one my husband and I use to have, but rather than living green this was a faded maroon like autumn fallen leaves. I had to search a few of the garages on that level to find it. The addicts watched from inside their glass walls, behind their glass doors, and snickered amongst themselves that I would never be able to leave, just like they could never leave.
There were at least five cars blocking my exit. As if to place my back against the wall, as if some unbreachable barrier of modern steel.
So I rammed them.
Each one of them.
The red Porsche. The black Camaro. All the fancy cars the addicts valued. Their means of acquiring more addict supply. The only symbol of themselves that still retained any value. True, my van was heavily battered by the time I reached the street, fenders falling off, lights shattered, grill a twisted smile of braces, but I was out.
I left my addict husband to his chosen hell.
I was free.