Don't Follow

The room was dark and hazy. The smoke from too many cigarettes had formed into a murky, curling mass that permeated the small space we were confined in. Aside from the sound of our own breathing, the room was dead silent.

Layne was sprawled out on the couch that was shoved into a corner of his living room. He was staring into the shadows with half-lidded eyes. Over two hours ago, he had shot up. Now, he just looked pathetic and tired. That was the way things always went with him; one extreme to the other.

I had watched my best friend stick the needle into his arm. What had once been his dirty little secret was now something he needed to survive. He didn't care if he shot up in front of me. I knew it still embarrassed him, but he was past the point of caring about that. It was either the injection to regulate himself or the withdrawals. You only get one or the other. Take your pick.

As I sat there, on his carpet that was tarnished by cigarette burns and spilled alcohol, I realized that things were never going to be the same again. To be honest, I had known that for a long time. But up until that moment, it had only been a nagging feeling. Suddenly, I became so aware of it that it felt as though I'd been sucked into a vortex of utter despair.

Before, there had been hope. Layne would get better, we'd say. He'll go to rehab, and they'll fix him up. He'll get off heroin and he'll be okay and his voice will come back and things will go back to normal. We can tour again, make new albums, and travel the world. When people talked bad about him, about his addiction, we would laugh. Layne? we'd scoff. Yeah, Layne's okay. He's always been okay. Always gonna be okay.

We could deny it all we wanted, but we were just ignoring the facts. Layne was slowly killing himself with each shot of heroin he took. The guy was wasting away before our eyes. He'd always been skinny, but after getting addicted to smack, it was different. He looked like a fucking skeleton, all bones covered in bruised, decaying flesh. And now it was too late to stop it. The damage had been done.

This is it, I thought. This is where it ends.

We were so close to hitting it big-time. Fame was on the tips of our fingers. People were into our band. We were selling out shows, and kids would line up outside the venue just to hear a muted set if they couldn't get in. This was our dream. We were going to be huge fucking rock stars, and it was going to be amazing.

The cold grip of fame brought with it the temptation of drugs. Being on the road in a tour bus was so fucking mind-numbing. Nobody really had anything against drug use, so long as it took us away from the boring rides from city to city. Hell, we had the money for it, so why not? We took advantage of everything that came our way. My personal preference was alcohol, but I'd dabbled in a little bit of everything. Layne took a strong liking to heroin. It was all good fun, until we took a break, and all we knew how to do in our months of free time was get messed up.

I'm not perfect. Nobody is. But no one likes to take responsibility for the bad things that they do. Layne didn't want to quit shooting up - not unless I was going to lay off drugs, too. I got defensive, said I didn't need to. I wasn't addicted, not like him, and let's ignore the fact that I just downed two bottles of Jack 'cause that's not the fucking point. But that wasn't the answer he wanted to hear, and he ignored my demand. I would, too, if I were him. I actually don't think Layne knew what it was that he wanted me to say. Nothing is of any consolation to a junkie.

We didn't grow apart, like most addicts do with their friends. We didn't spend as much time together, sure, but we always got along. We did our own thing and would hang out afterward. It was only now that we'd begun to spend more time together than usual. I felt like time was running out, like the world was about to end and I was the only one who knew, but I was the only person that couldn't stop it.

This wasn't going to last much longer. I knew that much. Layne would leave, or I would leave. He was going to die or maybe go into rehab and come out a new man.

"Hey, Layne?" I called to him. My voice was unexpectedly rough. "You mind handing that to me?"

He grabbed the bottle of alcohol that I'd pointed at and handed it to me. The sheer weight of the half-emptied whiskey container was making his arm shake. I turned away so that I wouldn't have to see it.

"Thanks, man."

"You're leaving tomorrow, right?" he asked me quietly. I nodded as best I could with my lips on the bottle. "Are you spending the night here?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. Do you want me to?"

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Layne said, stretching like a cat waking up from a nap.

"Nah, I want to. I didn't wanna assume that it was cool with you if I did."

"Is it ever a problem?" he laughed. I chuckled along with him for a moment before I went back to the bottle. It had been a long day. I had no idea what time it even was. There were no clocks in Layne's living room, and the blackout curtains shielded the sun. It was a weird feeling, living without any indication of what time it was. You could get lost in it.

Either way, I was fucking exhausted.

"So... what are you doing at your parent's again? I know you told me, but I can't... I can't remember." Layne laughed sheepishly and ran his spindly fingers through his hair. I'd talked to him about leaving when I first came over. I knew he'd forget by the time I was walking out the door.

"Drying out. Visiting the family. I haven't seen them for more than a few hours since I moved out."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, I remember you telling me about that now." He nodded as if he needed to confirm the fact to himself. I knew he really did remember. We had argued about it for a few hours. I'd tried - and miserably failed - to convince him to go into rehab while I was gone. He wouldn't have any of that.

"What're you gonna do while I'm gone?" I asked.

He avoided my eyes as if they could infect him with a disease. We both knew that when I wasn't there, the needle was his only friend. He mumbled, "Not really anything, y'know."

"Oh."

"How long are you going to be gone for?" Layne switched the subject like a professional. He was able to look at me again.

"A week, maybe more. I'm not sure yet. I'll come back when I feel like come back, I guess." I scratched my scalp. A wave of sadness crashed over me like a tsunami. I was feeling out of control. What if I came back and Layne was already dead? What if I brought him with me? What if-

Layne whistled, long and low. "A whole week?"

"Yeah. Maybe longer."

"Wow."

I could hear the dismay in his voice; he was going to miss me. I was the only person who came to see him, the only one who took care of him, and the only person he probably even wanted to see. He wouldn't talk to Sean when he came knocking, wouldn't even pick up the phone for Mike. I had to play the villainous servant and chase them off for the man who was in a drug-imposed exile.

Sometimes I wished that we weren't friends, or that I could be on the receiving end of the shooing I had to do to our friends. That usually made me wind up feeling like the world's biggest asshole. It just hurt, having to watch my best friend do this to himself. That was the main reason I needed a break. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was killing me, just like it was killing him.

I loved Layne like a fucking brother - always have, always will. And anyone who's watched one of the people they love most destroy themselves know just how painful that can be.

He was losing everything. He was giving it all up, and for what? For a fucking drug? For a few hours of relief from the monotony of the real world? I wished that I'd have thought of something before. It was too late to help him now, but I could have done something before, when this all started.

We both fell asleep sometime late that night - or was it early morning? - after a light-hearted argument about who was sleeping where. That happened every time I was over. He'd tell me that I was going to take his bed, and he'd sleep on the couch. I refused to let that happen. I generally got my way, since Layne would give up. That time was no exception. I curled up on the couch with a blanket from Layne's bed, and he meandered into his room.

I woke up some hours later to find the light in the bathroom was on and piercing through the fog of my dreams. I grumbled something to myself and covered my face with the blanket until I realized that something was out of the ordinary. I pulled the blanket down and let my eyes adjust to what was going on in the bathroom.

Layne was standing there, shirtless, with his thin arms propping himself up on the sink. He was trembling and staring intently at his reflection in the mirror. I was shocked at how pale he looked under the dull glow of the dying, yellow bulbs.

"Layne? Man, are you okay?" I called hesitantly. He didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken to him. "Fuck," I hissed to myself. I'd never forgive myself if he overdosed right there, while I was with him. I tossed the blanket to the floor and walked over to him.

Layne was doused in an icy cold sweat, his hair matted to his head. He looked as if he were going to pass out at any second. I placed my hand on his shoulder. His skin tensed beneath me but offered no reaction aside from that. He was burning hot to the touch.

"Are you feeling alright?" I asked.

"No." His answer came from stiff lips, his eyes never leaving the mirror.

"What's up?" I asked. My voice was nothing more than a tremor that betrayed my worry. He shook his head silently. I patted his back back once again, then rubbed his shoulder. "Come on, man. You need to talk to me. I'm fucking worried."

"I'm so scared. I'm gonna die, I know I'm gonna die," Layne whispered. My heart constricted, paused its rhythm, then picked up the pace tenfold.

"Yeah? We're all gonna die. I'm gonna die one day, too."

"You know what I mean," he said. "God, it's killing me."

I didn't have anything to say to that. I knew it was killing him, and while I didn't want to lie, I didn't want to hurt him, either. I just patted his shoulder quietly and chewed my lip with maddening worry.

On an impulse, he turned and threw his arms around me; his face buried in the crook of my neck. After a second, I returned the embrace. When his voice came again, it was wavering and muffled by my shirt. The absolute pain in it wrenched my heart. I bit my lip to keep the tears back. I needed to be strong for him.

"I'm gonna die, Jerry. I'm not gonna - not gonna make it much longer. And I'm scared, so fucking... I don't wanna die. Not, not anymore. Don't be like me, Jerry. Oh god, don't let it get to you like me. It's killing me, and I'm so fucking scared."

My tears were flowing freely now. Fuck being strong. I was going to hold him in his weakest moment and fucking cry with him, because I was terrified, too.

"I just..." His words were stifled by a sob that he did his best to choke back. "I'm so fucking scared, Jerry. So... so..."

"I know," I whispered. "I know."

And I did.