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Lines

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Have you been the only one in a cemetery before? And somehow it’s always raining, so you have a reason to weep uncontrollably? Have you stayed up at night thinking about them, suddenly yelling “Come back ” at the top of your lungs; waking the neighbors upstairs? It takes a contained person not to do this every night, or a person with a cold heart. You know you are neither, you burst out in sobs one day while reading out loud in class, then quickly dismiss it as people ask what’s wrong. You yell at them harshly leaving you breathless, fabricating confused looks to cross their faces.
People don’t understand the numb feeling of disbelief overcoming you, the dream-like stage you walk in. Until you see the sunken cheeks, the unnaturally pale skin, the blue-tinted lips, and the last expression of peace set deep into their face. Then a sense of dread and anger takes over you, you shout at the dead as loud as you can, but you know he can’t hear you. You struggle in the arms of strong men as they pull you out the door, their hearts unmoved by the tears that flow from your eyes.
“Let me go ” you scream “I have to know why ” they tighten their grip on your arms, looking straight ahead, they push you into a black car, speaking only once as they tell the driver to take you home. Then…that’s it, you can’t do anything, you could never do anything, nothing to save him. You just stood there and watched, watched him slowly die every time he did a line.
You bury your face in your hands, you blame yourself as you walk up your stairs, to your four walls of chaos. You open your door, loosening the tie around your neck. Entering your apartment and walking directly to the glass coffe table. The little blade still there still gleaming. You realize in horror that where you stand is where he overdosed, bile rising in your throat, you run to the bathroom and cough up your guilt. You wipe your mouth breathless, and gaze at yourself in the mirror,
“You introduced him to his death ” You shriek “It's your fault he's gone ”
You punch the mirror, sending bits of your reflection to the tile floor, you return to the living room, shaken by the result of a forsaken thought. You pace around the room in circles, knocking things our of the way. You're looking, looking for the substance that numbs your feelings. You walk to the speakers and feel around it's plastic borders, then you see it. It's the behind the plasma, stuck on messily. Your mind flashes back, reminding you that you put it there, when the police came knocking at your door. You remember explaining that you tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen, though you knew you encouraged him, encouraged him to do another and another, cheering him on.
You grab frantically at the bag, clumsly despensing the powder on the table. You pick up his blade hesitantlly, a chill running down your spine. You seperate a little corner from the pile, sliding it in front of you, chopping it, organizing ir, into a thin white line. You take a deep breath and inhale, it burns yours nostrils, the kind burning the makes you forget. You throw your head back, looking at the white expansion above you. You laugh in reflief as a buzzing sensation takes hold of you, starting at your toes and ending at your fingertips. You hear the ticks of the clock go by as you wait for your fruitless paradise to kiss you.





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