The Exemplification of Carter Winslow

Carter Winslow lived a charmed childhood. He was healthy, came from a well-off family, had a picturesque childhood reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell image, and he was brilliant, everything seemed to come easily for him. However, there was always an edge about him that no one could nurture out. His mother tried, maybe a bit too hard. His dad was supportive of his artistic talent and pursuits, never heavy-handed and always encouraging. His sister was his biggest fan through the years, watching him play the violin like a child prodigy. But for some reason, Carter had convinced himself that he still wasn’t good enough, and days when those feelings dominated him, his sharp-edged cynicism would slice anyone close to him.

Carter’s mom never understood why his self-image was so distorted. A strikingly handsome young man with dark eyes and a smile that brightened a room. His intelligence inspired conversations not debate, and if he wanted to, he could charm a stone into believing it was a diamond. But the only people he would let in were his two best friends from college, Al and Sara. Carter’s mom loved how they’d helped him open up more, and she’d watched her son bloom into a successful young man. By his mid-twenties, he’d worked his way into the first chair of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. His talents finally at home, he focused all of his energy into his art, embracing who he truly was.

Then one frigid, October night, Carter came rushing home from a long day at rehearsal. He hurried into the elevator and grabbed the accordion door to close it. The old building hadn’t been updated and the heavy metal groaned as Carter pulled. Before he could snag his left hand out of the way, the hinges grabbed his fingers and twisted them with a crunch and snap of bone. He screamed. Pain seared through his arm, blood trickling down his palm. He heard footsteps just as he collapsed and passed out.

Later, he woke in the emergency room, devastated at the news that his hand was crushed. It would be at least six weeks before he could even consider playing the violin again. The next day, they sent him home with a bottle of hydrocodone, a prescription for more, and nothing to do but think about how this would destroy his career.

Two years later, Sara Stevens was in the middle of making dinner when her cell phone rang.

“Hi, Al.”

“I found Carter last night.” A long pause. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“It was awful,” Al’s voice cracked. “Will you help me at his apartment? It’s a mess.”

“Of course. How are you?”

“I swear, I’ll never get that out of my head.” He let out a long sigh. “I hadn’t heard from him in days. The last time we talked, he was mumbling gibberish about demons torturing him. Something about whispers. I don’t know Sara. He was really messed up.”

“I hate to say it, but I’m not surprised.”

“Me either.”

Carter’s best friends cried together over the phone. No words, only the sound of sniffles and shared tears.

After they hung up, Sara thought back over their years of friendship. The trio had attended college together. Afterward, they moved in different directions to start their careers, but they’d always managed to stay in touch. Every spring, they stayed the weekend at the Hilton in Downtown Chicago for their annual reunion. After a Cubs game, if they could catch one, they’d go to Ditka’s and eat a ridiculously priced dinner with several bottles of wine, then finish with a nightcap at the hotel bar. The last time they all met, Carter wasn’t the same man. He’d dropped at least thirty pounds. His face was sunken and dusty with dark circles under his eyes. He’d let his hair grow shaggy along with a scruffy beard that contradicted his once refined appearance. Sara and Al were worried. At breakfast the next morning, they tried to talk to him about what he was going through.

“Are you okay, Carter?” Sara asked.

Carter took a sip of coffee with a blank look.

“Sure,” he said as he lowered the mug. “Why do you ask?”

“You look awful man,” Al said.

Another impassive glance. “Thanks.”

“What are you on?” Sara asked.

“No doubt,” Al said. “Something’s up.”

The bustle of the dining room masked the silence as they waited for Carter to thaw. He stared right past them with a hollow, cold gaze. He slowly scratched his forearm where the sleeve was rolled up.

“It’s the painkillers,” he whispered. “They got to me.”

“What painkillers?” Al asked.

“You know. For my hand.”

“You still have a prescription for them?”

“No.” Carter made a disgusted face. “You kidding? They won’t refill it anymore.”

“Then how is it the painkillers?”

Carter scratched the inside of his elbow, moving the fabric a fraction. Almost as if it was subconscious, he revealed what he’d been up to. He quickly pushed his sleeve back down.

Sara gasped. The pit of Carter’s arm was several shades of purple, and she swore she saw more than one puncture wound. Al nudged her. She glanced at him. His wide eyes confirmed they’d both seen it.

Carter stood to his feet and tossed his cloth napkin on his untouched plate.

“Hate to cut this short, but I need to get to the studio. We’re recording this week.”

“You aren’t going to The Art Institute with us?” Sara asked, disappointed.

Al shook his head. “You need to get some help before that kills you.”

Carter smirked. “Help for what?”

“You go from blaming painkillers to covering up your track marks. I’m not stupid.”

“Whatever. I’ll talk to you guys soon.”

Carter turned and walked toward the lobby. Sara pushed back tears as she watched her friend disappear around the corner.

“Oh, God, Al. He’s not okay.”

“He’s shooting-up.”

“Heroin?”

A shrug. “I suppose so.”

“What can we do?”

“Seems to me, nothing.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “He won’t even talk to us.”

Sara’s heart broke for her friend. Heroin? Obviously, Carter was in a dark, lonely place. Al was right, how could they help him if he wasn’t even willing to stay and talk? An addiction like that could be a life-sentence, a death-sentence. Carter’s hands were his livelihood, and when he’d smashed his hand, his art—his soul had shattered along with it. She couldn’t imagine what he’d been going through to make such a detrimental decision to turn to heroin.

For the next eight months, Sara didn’t hear from Carter. When she’d tried to call him, he wouldn’t answer. She eventually called his sister, and they cried together as they talked about Carter’s deterioration. There wasn’t anything they could do. Despite their best efforts, Carter continued to spiral into a world he refused to let them see.

Two days after the funeral, Sara stepped off the elevator into a long, carpeted hallway lined with doors every thirty feet or so. She found apartment 505, took a deep breath, and softly knocked. A few seconds later, the door opened to Al greeting her with a weak smile. When she stepped inside, her stomach rolled over. The place was revolting. Sara stood there, stunned. Carter was known for being meticulously clean. His obsession with organization had once bordered OCD. Evidently, heroin was a jealous companion, demanding all of Carter’s attention.

“The place reeks,” Sara said, cupping her hand over her nose and mouth.

“You should’ve been here when I had the landlord open the door. You could smell it in the hallways.”

“It?”

“Him.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Me too.” He sighed, waving her to follow. She stepped around trash piled on the floor as they moved toward the kitchen. “The police took out everything drug related. Baggies, spoons, syringes, you know…but we still need to be careful, just in case they missed something. The last thing we need is to get stabbed by some random needle.”

Sara assessed the place. Crusted dishes were stacked in the sink, various liquids splattered all over the walls and cabinets, the handles of the refrigerator were practically black from filth. She grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open. The only thing inside was a gallon of milk, expired for over a month. She turned to Al.

“There’s no food. Did you empty it already?”

“When you have heroin, who needs food?”

Her stomach rolled over again. Such a dark world of hopelessness, she thought. Why didn’t he let us help him?

Sara walked to the other side of the apartment. The shades were crooked, falling off the hinges yet the sunlight was still blocked out from heavy blankets he’d stapled to the frame. With each step, she felt the sticky floor peel from the souls of her shoes. Old bags of potato chips and half-full bottles of beer filled the coffee and end tables. Several ashtrays were piled high with cigarette butts, ashes overflowing and dropped everywhere. The couch held wadded blankets at one end and a greasy pillow at the other. She stepped into the bedroom. Dirty clothes covered the floor next to his unmade bed. In the far corner of the dark room, books and sheet music were tossed about like he’d had a fit of rage.

Sara froze, staring down at the mess. “His violin.”

Carter’s prized violin lay on the floor, snapped in half next to his music stand. The strings were bent and gnarled around the splintered wood like he’d broken it over his knee, and then stomped on it.

Al joined her and slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “He finally answered my call last week. The symphony fired him a few days before Christmas.”

“Oh, no…do you think he overdosed on purpose?”

“Maybe. He’d told me the demons wouldn’t stop whispering, even when he played.”

“He always made reference to that. I never really understood what he meant.”

“By the looks of the place, they were shouting not whispering.”

She turned into Al’s embrace and they held each other for several moments. She couldn’t comprehend how awful Carter must’ve felt. She began to cry on Al’s shoulder, thankful he was holding her steady.

When they let go, Sara went to the bathroom to see how it looked. She pushed the door open and flipped on the light.

“Oh, God.” She stepped back and slammed the door. “Al, we have to hire someone to help us.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want anyone else in here. I’ll do it.”

She understood. No one needed to know, and they had to do what they could to protect what was left of Carter’s reputation. Regardless, she couldn’t fathom walking into that bathroom.

“This is nuts. What are we going to do with all of his stuff?”

“His dad asked me to box it up and put it in a storage unit. He rented one not far from here.”

“Well, I’m not touching the bathroom, but I’ll help you otherwise. Let’s get started. This is going to take a while.”

For the next few days, Sara and Al whittle away at Carter’s apartment, boxing up all his clothing, books, knick-knacks, and the contents of the kitchen. As they sorted through the piles of their best friend’s life, they began to piece together his last days.

“Look here,” Sara said. “I found this on his dresser.”

She handed Al a business card. A Safe Place – Outpatient therapy for opioid addiction.

“He had an appointment three days before he died,” Al said as he looked over the card. “I wonder if he went.”

“I don’t know, but those packets on his nightstand are some kind of medication. I bet that’s where he got them.”

“Those are a blocker of some sort. I Googled it, but still don’t really understand.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“Yes, you do.”

Sara stepped back and huffed. “What do you mean?”

“Addiction’s everywhere.”

“Not like this.”

“True, but it’s something we all battle on some level. Food, soda, beer—hell, alcohol in general. Cigarette smokers, some are prescribed and others aren’t. TV, music…sex is another big one. The phone you keep glancing at every ten seconds.” He grinned. “We all have our battles.”

Sara thought about her internal struggles throughout a day. Caffeine. She had to have her coffee or so she’d convinced herself. That glass of wine at night which sometimes turned into three or more. Food wasn’t an issue for her, but it tortured many of her loved ones. Sugar calling their name, always craving another taste. Al was right, she’d been fighting the urge to look at the notifications on her phone since she’d gotten there. The addiction to technology, alone, was making society awkward, people hiding behind their devices and earbuds. She’d been so preoccupied with how Carter had fallen; she’d lost her compassion for why. When they met at the Hilton last year, Carter was already gone. The painkillers began as a helper, then they’d held him in a silent vice. After the doctors cut him off, he thought his only option was to hit the streets. All Carter ever wanted was play the violin, and the pain drove him to continue to medicate when what he really needed was help. Thoughts of what extremes he may have taken raced through her mind. Such a dark, lonely world to sink into. And from what they’d been able to figure out, Carter had completely isolated himself from everyone, not just them.

“You have a point,” Sara said. “The opioid epidemic has destroyed so many people. It just hurts to imagine how bad it was for him. Have the police told you anything more?”

“No. There’s really isn’t a way to trace the drugs. Carter’s just another statistic.”

Al walked away, looking as sad as Sara felt. She went across the room and picked up Carter’s violin. Once, it had been a piece of art so perfectly designed and crafted. Now, it was nothing but broken and shattered— it was the exemplification of Carter Winslow, her beloved friend.