Follow Me Down
I gave it a name.
You might be wondering what I'm doing here. The big city's late night scene buzzes beneath me, the minors strutting around with their fake ID's and the celebrities are partying harder than they were the previous night. Yet, they'll all wake up just in time to dazzle the world with their airbrushed faces and pearly white smiles.
There's a breeze blowing just strong enough to toss my hair around my face and push my dress against my right thigh. The infamous fog and smog of the city filled my lungs as I took in breath after breath, laughing inside. I always knew this air was worse than secondhand smoke. No one else would believe me except him.
"It's a good night to jump," he says. I look down, and no one's there; no one's in the way. He's beside me; I feel him. "Follow me down."
Everyone has an escape whether it's public or private, legal or illegal, healthy or unhealthy. At times mine felt all of the above despite how contradictory and impossible it'd be. It felt good, and in those moments the fleeting happiness was all that mattered.
When my mom and my dad put me in rehab, the doctors always said the same thing. "What does getting high do for you? How do you physically, spiritually and mentally benefit? How are you as an individual improved?"
Naturally, I'd always give the same answer. "I don't get high. I fall. I fall like I'm a skydiver jumping from a plane."
There would be some variation in comment afterwards, depending on my mood or how thing my patience had been stretched. They'd always dismiss me and say I needed mental help so I could achieve a full, long life of sobriety. Funny, I thought it was their job to fix me rather than tuck me away in some mental institution.
Then, as all these professionals do, they encouraged me to recognize that I had a problem, determine to change for the better and finally kick the habit. I named my problem something special, something I'd want to name my children. When they asked me why I chose that name, I only smiled at them.
Naturally, I'd keep everything from them if I could. They had no business to ask me why I named my disease after a blessing. All they had to do was waste my parents' money and my time. Suddenly, he appeared as I sat in my room in the institution. That's when everything came full circle and everything changed.
He wasn't like the other whining quitters. He had a sarcastic, rich laugh and the foulest mouth I'd ever heard. The doctors treated him like he wasn't even there and gave me odd looks when I'd giggle at his jokes. The first thing he said to me was pure magic.
"Let's get outta here."
I was ecstatic; he wanted out, just like me. He held onto my hand tightly as we walked out of the dull, white room and headed up to the roof of the building. Rain was plopping down on us, but we didn't care.
He taught me things, like how to really order a cheeseburger. Tea was never good enough after sex. He even showed me how to string a guitar and ukelele. I was his student; he was my teacher. At times, I didn't want to be a quick learner. I relished the time he and I spent together, off in our own world of nonsense and bliss.
We spent plenty of time together. Surprisingly, the doctors did not mind that he and I shared a room and a bed. I still didn't understand why they ignored him so much. He was beautiful. A tall, lean sculpture of being he was. Dark hair grew from his head, and his grey eyes haunted me in my sleep. His voice, oh that voice, could melt the coldest, hardest of hearts and seduce the king and queen of the prudes. He could get his fix for free if he spoke; I was sure of it.
Still, the doctors and my fellow prisoners didn't acknowledge him most of the time. The nurses didn't swoon as I assumed they would. Clearly those women had no taste in men. None of them even brought him dinner, so I shared mine with him each night. I saved his life in my own way, I suppose, by sharing food with him. It was cruel punishment to not feed him. When I got out, I swore I'd take his case to court and put that place out of business.
I caught my parents and my doctor talking about how frighteningly schizophrenic I'd become. Of course, I knew I wasn't crazy; I was the sanest person in that wretched place. They spoke of how I was hallucinating and my newfound companion. They were all convinced I had simply made him up to compensate for loneliness, but I knew he was real. He had to be real. He was almost the best high I'd ever had.
One cool night, we both fell, and it wasn't in love. There was light, frothy smoke, white powder and funny, little pills. It was one of those rare moments when you feel everything at once, and it's scary. His cold hand gripped my forearm, pulling me from the haze, from the room.
That's how I got to the roof. That's when I realized it was all or nothing, freedom or imprisonment. That's when he said, "Follow me down."
And that's when I jumped and fell for the very last time. As the sky rushed above me, I turned my head to smile at him one last time. He wasn't there. Just before it all went black, I looked up at the rooftop and still didn't find him. It'd be cliche to say I didn't want to live without him.
It'd be truth to say I couldn't live without him. That night, the night I fell for the last time, my addiction and I died happily ever after.
There's a breeze blowing just strong enough to toss my hair around my face and push my dress against my right thigh. The infamous fog and smog of the city filled my lungs as I took in breath after breath, laughing inside. I always knew this air was worse than secondhand smoke. No one else would believe me except him.
"It's a good night to jump," he says. I look down, and no one's there; no one's in the way. He's beside me; I feel him. "Follow me down."
Everyone has an escape whether it's public or private, legal or illegal, healthy or unhealthy. At times mine felt all of the above despite how contradictory and impossible it'd be. It felt good, and in those moments the fleeting happiness was all that mattered.
When my mom and my dad put me in rehab, the doctors always said the same thing. "What does getting high do for you? How do you physically, spiritually and mentally benefit? How are you as an individual improved?"
Naturally, I'd always give the same answer. "I don't get high. I fall. I fall like I'm a skydiver jumping from a plane."
There would be some variation in comment afterwards, depending on my mood or how thing my patience had been stretched. They'd always dismiss me and say I needed mental help so I could achieve a full, long life of sobriety. Funny, I thought it was their job to fix me rather than tuck me away in some mental institution.
Then, as all these professionals do, they encouraged me to recognize that I had a problem, determine to change for the better and finally kick the habit. I named my problem something special, something I'd want to name my children. When they asked me why I chose that name, I only smiled at them.
Naturally, I'd keep everything from them if I could. They had no business to ask me why I named my disease after a blessing. All they had to do was waste my parents' money and my time. Suddenly, he appeared as I sat in my room in the institution. That's when everything came full circle and everything changed.
He wasn't like the other whining quitters. He had a sarcastic, rich laugh and the foulest mouth I'd ever heard. The doctors treated him like he wasn't even there and gave me odd looks when I'd giggle at his jokes. The first thing he said to me was pure magic.
"Let's get outta here."
I was ecstatic; he wanted out, just like me. He held onto my hand tightly as we walked out of the dull, white room and headed up to the roof of the building. Rain was plopping down on us, but we didn't care.
He taught me things, like how to really order a cheeseburger. Tea was never good enough after sex. He even showed me how to string a guitar and ukelele. I was his student; he was my teacher. At times, I didn't want to be a quick learner. I relished the time he and I spent together, off in our own world of nonsense and bliss.
We spent plenty of time together. Surprisingly, the doctors did not mind that he and I shared a room and a bed. I still didn't understand why they ignored him so much. He was beautiful. A tall, lean sculpture of being he was. Dark hair grew from his head, and his grey eyes haunted me in my sleep. His voice, oh that voice, could melt the coldest, hardest of hearts and seduce the king and queen of the prudes. He could get his fix for free if he spoke; I was sure of it.
Still, the doctors and my fellow prisoners didn't acknowledge him most of the time. The nurses didn't swoon as I assumed they would. Clearly those women had no taste in men. None of them even brought him dinner, so I shared mine with him each night. I saved his life in my own way, I suppose, by sharing food with him. It was cruel punishment to not feed him. When I got out, I swore I'd take his case to court and put that place out of business.
I caught my parents and my doctor talking about how frighteningly schizophrenic I'd become. Of course, I knew I wasn't crazy; I was the sanest person in that wretched place. They spoke of how I was hallucinating and my newfound companion. They were all convinced I had simply made him up to compensate for loneliness, but I knew he was real. He had to be real. He was almost the best high I'd ever had.
One cool night, we both fell, and it wasn't in love. There was light, frothy smoke, white powder and funny, little pills. It was one of those rare moments when you feel everything at once, and it's scary. His cold hand gripped my forearm, pulling me from the haze, from the room.
That's how I got to the roof. That's when I realized it was all or nothing, freedom or imprisonment. That's when he said, "Follow me down."
And that's when I jumped and fell for the very last time. As the sky rushed above me, I turned my head to smile at him one last time. He wasn't there. Just before it all went black, I looked up at the rooftop and still didn't find him. It'd be cliche to say I didn't want to live without him.
It'd be truth to say I couldn't live without him. That night, the night I fell for the last time, my addiction and I died happily ever after.