Junk Lunch.

I want to back up a little and share an incident that happened a few months before I started this blog (the exact date being October 26, 2008), which I refer to as the "Junk Lunch" incident. In my previous post which was originally from 2/7/09 I mention "being held down and having food shoved in my face." Here is that whole story.

    Kneeling over the bed, I pound my fists into the mattress and scream as loudly as I can. The scream is interrupted by my wailing breathless sobs. Not again, not again, not again. I never fucking imagined that this would be my life. I reach for my phone, dialing my credit card company. Still in hysterics I explain to the Chase customer service rep that my credit cards and debit cards have been stolen and to please cancel them immediately. She tells me not to worry and the situation will be handled promptly.
    I force myself up off the floor and into the hallway. The mirror shows my swollen puffy face, red liquid now caked to my cheek and neck. I pick some stray lettuce out of my hair and find a piece of salami in the back. I return to my bedroom and start tearing the sheets off the bed. It looks like an Italian restaurant has exploded onto my blankets and walls. The floor is littered with the contents of my purse, my wallet torn in two. As I throw my soiled sheets and pillowcases into the washing machine I step over a broken chair and shards of glass. My cat looks at me, confused. She has a piece of ham on top of her head. I can’t help it, I laugh. Because if I don’t I’ll never stop crying.
    Me and D had been sitting in bed all morning, our lunch had just arrived. Take-out from Danny’s Pizzaria. While I was downstairs playing the delivery guy, he had found his wallet and realized I’d taken his dope. As I entered our room and sat down on the bed, he glared at me, standing next to the dresser. It was clear he knew. I looked up. “Yeah. I flushed it. You can’t be doing this shit anymore. You’re fucked up.” That was all it look to enrage him. He grabbed me by the back of the head, fingers digging into my scalp. Pulled me by hair down onto the bed. “Give it to me. NOW.” I tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but to no avail. “Let go!! It’s fucking gone!” I flailed helplessly, struggling to free myself. “You’re hurting me!”
    “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” he was screaming over and over. He was shaking me, still holding onto the back of my hair. He saw the brown Danny’s bag and grabbed it. Before I knew it, the bag was being smashed over and over again in my face. I was sobbing loudly, kicking and trying to get the hell up. The bag broke, and the contents of my Italian hero and his chicken parm hero were flying. He pressed down, shoving the food into my face and rubbing it in. I couldn’t breathe, a tomato slice was in my mouth, sauce filling my nostrils. I was helpless.
    Reaching out, I grasped for anything to help get him off me. He’s a big guy and I completely overpowered. Finally I gave in. I tried to speak. “I have the bag! STOP!” My words were muffled, but he heard exactly what he was hoping to hear. He threw the torn apart, saturated bad aside and said “GET IT NOW.” Crying and disoriented, I tried my hardest to remember where I had hidden it. It wasn’t quick enough. He had grabbed my bag and dumped it’s contents on the floor. My wallet was being ripped apart in his hands, him grabbing whatever credit cards and cash he found. I begged for him to please stop and to give me my cards back. “Fuck you! Give me MY shit!” Stumbling around I found his bag of heroin and handed it to him. He snatched it away, found his keys and stormed out, knocking over anything in his path that stood in his way. I knew my money was as good as gone. So was my pride, self-respect and dignity.
    My endless phone calls to him went unanswered. I knew he was at Fats’ house and I called him. I explained that D had stolen my cards and I really wanted them and the cash back right away. I knew I was dreaming thinking that he’d surrender the money.
    Fats arrived about 15 minutes later. Crying, I explained what happened. He told me that I should have never taken his drugs and that I’d made a mistake. Well of course. What else would another junkie say? He also informed me that Bobby was sick of me treating him like a baby, going through his things and always “spying” on what he was doing. I was sickened. How can anyone ever defend that kind of behavior? What would anyone in my position do? The EXACT same thing. I found something that I knew could kill him, so I took it away. It’s pretty much a no-brainer. Not to mention this stuff is tearing apart his entire life and is illegal.
    The rest of the day is somewhat of a blur. I know he had gotten to the ATM before Chase could cancel my cards. I think he got somewhere in the neighborhood of around $150. I know he didn’t return until later that evening, spending the day over at Fats’ apartment doing dope that I had paid for.
    What made this day particularly terrible to me was the fact that he had stooped to the level of holding me down and shoving food in my face. What kind of person does that? It’s so incredibly demeaning and juvenile. Over one bag of heroin. I just can’t wrap my head around it. And in the following months that we lived there I got a constant reminder of the “junk lunch” anytime I glanced at the wall next to my bed and noticed the little flecks of marinara sauce that wouldn’t come out as hard as I scrubbed.