(no subject)
This is how it all started. This is where I lost you.
I was barely nineteen-years old. I look back now and think, What did I know at nineteen? I know I thought that because my brain was capable of operating on a different vibration than the majority of my peers, that I was somehow more attuned to the world around me -- I resonated on a level that was just slightly above the rest, and as such, I had everything figured out.
She called me at midnight with a confession: "I've been shooting heroin."
Not just doing heroin, but shooting it. She would tell me later about the boy who turned her onto it, some kid I didn't know named Brian. She had asked him, "Should I smoke it?" He said, "If you're going to smoke it, you may as well snort it. And if you're going to snort it, you may as well mainline it."
"I found you on a Saturday, and that was when I lost you. You had to finally walk away, because of what it cost you."
So she got an apartment full of cinderblocks with an ex-boyfriend she never loved, and hid herself away in a bedroom whose walls were covered with prying eyes she herself had painted. A girl named Arcadia lived down the hall. She and Amy quickly became friends, and they became involved in a tumultuous on-again off-again non-relationship, united in their shared passion for ketamine.
Amy was crazy for drugs. And she was crazy without them. At age 19 we were still maintaining some semblance of friendship, even though our lives were clearly on two totally different trajectories at that point. She'd invite me over and I'd find plates of leftover K in her microwave, and loose razor blades scattered across tabletops. It seemed she was incapable of feeling shame, but she'd hurry me out of the apartment all the same and we'd take the train into Center City for the day. Our trips were always cut short, however. She'd receive a vague phone call from someone whom I could only assume was Arcadia, then she'd hang up and make up a half-hearted yet over the top lie about why she had to get back--alone.
I was barely nineteen-years old. I look back now and think, What did I know at nineteen? I know I thought that because my brain was capable of operating on a different vibration than the majority of my peers, that I was somehow more attuned to the world around me -- I resonated on a level that was just slightly above the rest, and as such, I had everything figured out.
She called me at midnight with a confession: "I've been shooting heroin."
Not just doing heroin, but shooting it. She would tell me later about the boy who turned her onto it, some kid I didn't know named Brian. She had asked him, "Should I smoke it?" He said, "If you're going to smoke it, you may as well snort it. And if you're going to snort it, you may as well mainline it."
"I found you on a Saturday, and that was when I lost you. You had to finally walk away, because of what it cost you."
So she got an apartment full of cinderblocks with an ex-boyfriend she never loved, and hid herself away in a bedroom whose walls were covered with prying eyes she herself had painted. A girl named Arcadia lived down the hall. She and Amy quickly became friends, and they became involved in a tumultuous on-again off-again non-relationship, united in their shared passion for ketamine.
Amy was crazy for drugs. And she was crazy without them. At age 19 we were still maintaining some semblance of friendship, even though our lives were clearly on two totally different trajectories at that point. She'd invite me over and I'd find plates of leftover K in her microwave, and loose razor blades scattered across tabletops. It seemed she was incapable of feeling shame, but she'd hurry me out of the apartment all the same and we'd take the train into Center City for the day. Our trips were always cut short, however. She'd receive a vague phone call from someone whom I could only assume was Arcadia, then she'd hang up and make up a half-hearted yet over the top lie about why she had to get back--alone.