One was a gladly wed and worldwide well-known writer, the other an awesome, funny hairdresser and ex-drug addict. After that a shock diagnosis pitched them into an intense romance …
Sometime in the summer of 2017 I composed in my journal, “Jesus fucking Christ, please save me.” I was trapped in hell, and I might see no way out. Our stunning, bright, two-bedroom penthouse apartment in the East Village– which I had rented out for Rayya to make her satisfied in the last months of her life– had actually come to be a dungeon of misery, danger, deterioration, medications. Rayya kept the shades attracted in any way hours of the day, not just since the light harmed her eyes but likewise because she had come to be intensely paranoid that she was being viewed by the authorities, and that they were coming for her.And, to be truthful, the cops may very well have come for her (for both people, actually), due to the fact that our house now consisted of thousands and countless dollars’ well worth of drug– several of which Rayya was cooking down and shooting into whatever capillaries she could locate upon her beaten-down, disease-ridden body, several of which she was freebasing, several of which she was grunting up her currently constantly bloodied nose. But most of the coke, since this minute, she had actually sliced up and set out in thick rails on the coffee table, beside an overruning ashtray, a container of bourbon, several containers of morphine and trazodone and Xanax, a pile of fentanyl spots and a collection of empty beer bottles. And these heaping lines of drug she counted, considered and studied all day.
Source: The Guardian