ususual, tragic, alive.

It was fall. The year had passed by like a fast-rolling train and I could hardly remember anything except for the highs and lows of the high I got from my drug, and I knew that he absolutely hated it. “You’re killing your brain,” he’d always say. “You’re killing your body.”

“Yeah?” I’d retort in that snippy, laced-with-PCP attitude. “You think that, but you’d know different if you tried it with me just once.” And in response I’d get nothing but a stern look, a turn on his heels, and the sight of his dairy-air swaying as he walked away in thought of a way to get me out of this, but there was no stopping.

I, unfortunately, didn’t care about what he said to me, or what anyone showed me, about the worsening of my addiction and the hallucinations people had said to have had while they were using that fine white powder. I hadn’t had any crazy sights that proved to be untrue, so I knew it didn’t apply to me.

He tried to prove me wrong. Once, while we were in the subway, I told him that I could feel spiders under my clothes, crawling and tickling my skin. “You’re hallucinating!” he tried to tell me in a hushed voice, but I had already lost it. I was rubbing and scratching at my skin, and it didn’t even take too long for the spiders to all crawl away. They were very polite in that favor.

I wish that my mind would have been as clear as it is today, for I would’ve seen what was happening to me. Surely I was not going insane! -- And I wasn’t, not without the help of PCP.

Have your parents ever warned you about drugs? Have they told you not to use them? I’m sure they’ve told you every line in the book, saying things like, “Your head needs to be clear to study” or “Drugs are horrible for your brain.” They’re all true, but I couldn’t have told you that one year and one day ago.

Over the climb of my addiction -- which I hadn’t been aware of at this time -- he had slowly been losing his health, losing his mind, and losing himself to me. He was sacrificing everything he had to make me realize what I was putting on the line by abusing this powder. My eyes were never on him, now that I recall, but his eyes were always on me. That is, until I killed him.

Really, I didn’t mean to harm anyone; it had been a long week without any money to spend and I had been without my most favored thing for seven whole days. He was speaking about how proud he was, I remember. He had gotten me a cake, a soda, and he had rented my favorite movie from when I was sober. “This is all for you,” he told me. “I want you to know that it’ll be okay if you give this up. You’re doing so good.”

“You’re doing so good,” he said! He was making a mockery out of me! He knew I was in pain and that my withdraws were torturing me with the intensity of death lurking at the corners of my mind, but he had spent his cash on a stupid cake to show me how much it made him happy that I wasn’t using the PCP. Fool!

But, because I had loved him at one time, I just gave him a soft smile and thanked him. We spent the rest of the night watching that stupid video that reminded me of the worst days of my life -- or, at least, what I thought were the worst.

That night, we both ended up in his bed. Because of the lack of my precious distraction, I had to have something to satisfy my craving…and we slept together.

Once he had fallen asleep, I plotted ways to kill him and knew I had to that very night, or else he would know. He seemed to know everything about me…

And so I did it. Just a mere few hours later, I sat on his chest, placed a pillow over his face and held it. I remember him waking up -- maybe from his lungs telling him that he wasn’t getting any air -- and looking me dead in the eyes as he struggled to get me off of him. My eyes were dead, cold, and heartless…and soon his previously lively, warm, beautiful eyes were too. I drained the life out of him and loved every minute of it.

…until I woke up the next morning and remembered the night’s events.

Soon after that, I killed myself too. In the same apartment, just two days later, I slit my own throat. Neither of us were found until the rent was due -- two weeks after I, myself, had died.

Why yes, we were unusual, tragic, and alive.