Lucid Daydreams

StartPrologue

A fierce pull off a cigarette fills my lungs, as well as the yearning void that dwells within me. Noxious toxins do their job, numbing any feelings of the hollow existence others refer to as life. Once my lungs are near capacity, I pull the cigarette away but continue to inhale, letting cool air chase the warm down into the black abyss. The automatic valve is released, pouring the billowy fumes out into the air. This drawn-out version of suicide is one of many weapons in my arsenal to combat the everlasting struggle against myself.

I’ve fallen headfirst for this fix, any fix, anything that prevents me from feeling the grudging resentment residing inside.

Why do I choose to fall in love with things that kill me?

It seems to be a theme in my life. One that at least seems justified, in my opinion. Every little thing we choose to do in life, no matter if it's beneficial or not, brings us closer to our death. So, why not do what you love until it kills you? At least in this sense, you get to have some say in how you die.

I arrive back at my place a little after three in the afternoon and find a friend still in bed fast asleep.

"Geez, come on, girl. Time to wake up!”

She needs to wake up and leave so I can get well. There is no way she can know I'm shooting dope. It's been hard enough keeping it a secret since she comes over unannounced every other day.

"Yo! Wake up, girl...”

Nothing.

I let out a loud sigh, shaking my head in an unconscious, hypocritical judgment. Then, like remembering part of a dream before it quickly dashes back into the irretrievable subconscious, I notice something about her.

Was that the same position she was in when I'd left almost an hour ago—on the right side of the bed, on her stomach, with her head facing the left?

She also doesn’t look like her usual self, as if she had a twin trade place with her in the night. Something feels off, though. Thankfully, she's still in the same glitzy clothes she'd worn the night before, leading me to believe we didn’t have sex.

Although it certainly wouldn't have been the first time, I thought it better not to give in to such things solely for convenience. Sex always seems to screw things up between friends. Or so I believed. But, what do I know?

On the nights we go out, we are each other’s wingman—I’d help her get a date while she would help me, and if we were both unlucky, we’d hook up with each other. Wasn’t a bad deal.

I could never date her, though. If anything were to happen that broke us apart, it would devastate me. I’d never risk losing my best friend in the world. I’d lose a special and vital part of myself; my lifeblood, my happiness, my soulmate—if those exist.

I consider the universe, fate, and karma as powers greater than us humans. I believe something phenomenal happened when these powers had brought her into this world. Something had meant for our paths to cross. With her, I could see all the beauty in the world, things I wish I had, and things I’ll do anything to protect.

She’s the type of girl who spends hours getting ready whenever we go out. It wasn’t needed, though. Her presence alone always makes a strong, glamorous entrance, letting everybody at the club know the party had arrived. Naturally, I’d cling to her at these places. It was her spirit, full of confidence and beauty that I envied and her suppressed instabilities that we shared.

I walk over to the side of the queen-sized bed. Laying there in peace, she resembles sleeping beauty underneath my cotton covers. Though I am not the prince whose kiss would awaken her silent slumber--far front it. Instead, I gently shake her left shoulder, whispering her name and sliding my finger along the side of her face, then--

Something’s wrong.

Her face is ice cold.

My desolate stomach sinks; my heart stops. Everything in the room, my apartment, the world, comes to a halt. I put the side of my face in front of her as if she were telling me a secret.

No words come out.

Not even a warm breath.

My heart comes back to life, pumping at an alarming rate. Even with adrenaline flowing, it takes both arms to flip her lifeless body over.

My heart climbs up my throat to escape before I swallow it back down, choking on stale air as my eyes stare in horror. Dark purple splotches spread across the entire right side of her wax-like face. With both hands, I palm her ears and shake her gently.

"Wake up, sweetie. No, not again. Wake up!”

One sick thing about drug addiction is how it can be compared to kids playing in the street, continuing to play after one is hit by a car, followed by another, and another. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this. But this time, it differed significantly from those of others. Both of our lives were on the line.

I feel the flow of blood surging up to my head as I pull myself up and off the bathroom floor. I had nearly made myself sick, moving her body to the bathroom, thinking the shower might wake her.

My muscles give out from carrying her, and I become dizzy. I sit down, putting my back against the wall. I hold my best friend’s body in my arms as we lie on my bathroom floor, her ashen face colder than the unkempt linoleum.

There are two bodies here, but only one heartbeat.

I refuse to believe she is gone.

How did this happen?

How did I end up here?

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to join her. To take a fatal shot of dope while she laid there on me, like a drug-addicted Romeo and his beautiful Capulet. The police would put their white homicide tape around our two bodies, holding us together forever, even after they eventually have to move the bodies. They’d be separated, but our souls would remain locked together for eternity.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, I do the only thing I can do and hold the hollow body before me and whisper from every bit of love left in my heart...

"I'm so sorry."

©️ JAALLISON, 2015