ISSN 2371-350X

Fiction: An Ideal Time To Relapse

Renee Rosensteel

 

By

Michael Marrotti

 

 

Fuck this shit. Bullshit. Stupid fucking day, was the repetitious mantra accompanying Mario on his solemn walk up the railroad tracks.

He decided to take a journey to his old chill spot down the South Side river to clear his head for a bit. It was either that, or possibly another visit to the Allegheny County Jail.

It was a liberating walk, indeed. Mario was still free to walk the streets after another failed attempt of bonding with his drunken mother.

Mario was carrying his Dead Boys book in one hand, and a clenched up fist in the other. He was grinding his teeth, obsessing over the package of drugs in his back pocket. All because of his cumbersome mother who doesn’t know how to behave after pounding out a half gallon of vodka.

It’s been a few weeks since Mario used any narcotics. He hasn’t even had a cigarette in over a month.Willpower was a new phenomenon for Mario, who was always quick to say yes when the party started.

After the dismal events that transpired today, he’s contemplating the benefits of capitulation. It’s a filthy world, why bother staying clean?

 

The same tragedy continued to haunt him as he made his trip up the tracks. At the gathering over his mother’s house everyone was getting along, right up to the time dinner was served. That’s when Mario’s mother prepared his plate of Chicken Cacciatori, slammed back her fifth glass of vodka, and told him how lousy his writing is. She also told him to be a man. Get a real job. To this, Mario did exactly what he told himself he would never do again: have another episode.

He immediately threw his entree into the trash. Plate and all. His sister, mother, step dad and uncle were all astounded. He then told his own mother to go fuck herself, who played along in her own sadistic way by crying.

It was a picture perfect plan for her. She was now the victim, and everyone despised Mario.

Words like “FUCKING ASSHOLE!”, “PIECE OF SHIT!” and “SCUM OF THE EARTH!” were thrown at Mario like a football to a wide receiver by all the family members who attended the pity party.

Mario was outraged. He was also outnumbered. The famous quote “True power is self-control” by Joseph Bonanno had failed to impact Mario as profoundly as he hoped it would. This is what kept him from moving in the wrong direction. As of now, it lost all its charm.

Mario was now on the offense against the opposition of the entire household. But primarily against his asshole step father who always had his mothers best interest at heart. Regardless of how asinine or absurd the entire dilemma was, he had her back. Once an asshole, always an asshole.

Dirty looks were exchanged. The heat was on. Mario took his belongings as he made his way for the side door. In all practicality, he avoided a felony. After slamming the door shut, he screamed at the top of his lungs, then proceeded to punch the siding of the house, bruising his knuckles in return. The sooner he could expunge these dismal memories, the better.

 

Mario had safely reached his destination. After exiting the railroad tracks, he slid down the hillside path, and took a seat on a rock by the shore.

He then listened to the waves of the Allegheny river. Directly across from him, on the other side of the river, is the Allegheny county jail. A place he’s all too familiar with. Certain detergents, and janitorial odors in general, all take him back to that place of oppression. It’s not a particularly tough place to be, but once you visit, it travels with you for the rest of your life.

Mario reached in his back pocket for the sustenance he was conserving for a miserable day, telling himself, this is an ideal time to relapse, as he re-established the title of hedonist.

After crushing the pills into fine dust, he thought about all the criminals across the river claiming to be victims of the system. Preparing themselves for yet another lonely night of smut magazines, masturbation and lucid dreams of being free.

Mario brandished a blue straw, then blew a rail like it was the answer to all of life’s problems. He tilted his head back afterwards to make sure he got it all in there. Every bit counts.

The drugs were like a true friend to Mario. They never let him down. Tranquility had already set in, when a few hours ago, murder was on his mind.

A celebratory cigarette was now in order. He reached in his pocket for the pack of Newports. The same pack he had carried around to nullify temptation, was now just a passing phase. He lit up the menthol cigarette, and blew out a tremendous hit that was tantamount to emancipation.

He ended up snorting a few more lines, as he gazed into the filth of the Allegheny river. Used condoms, VHS tapes and what appeared to be old chicken bones washed up on the shore. A few ducks would’ve been nice to see, but Mario didn’t have any bread to spare anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

As the drugs went into overdrive, Mario felt no feelings of shame or remorse. No forgiveness either. Mario was just happy to be alive, to be free. Or to be as free as any man can be in the fascist states of America. Where the mutual combat law has turned everyone into victims.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Marrotti - poetry Tuck Magazine

Michael Marrotti

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, equipped with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He’s out to make a difference through writing and philanthropy. A faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. Michael Marrotti writes books that sell no more than five copies, but get 5 star reviews, like F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. You can reach him at [email protected]

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