After a springtime disaster with a girl, my attachment to her weighed on me. I put myself on an island with only her as my fellow survivor. Once we weren’t together, even surrounded by people, the island remained. She represented what I had lost. She was the only connection I had left to my hometown, as we went to the same high school.
Losing her wasn’t just painful — it became the lens through which I saw everything. I took the loss as catastrophic to my life and health, so I did what anyone looking for meaning in chaos might do: I unraveled. Psychedelics. A vase on my patio was filled with browned cigarette butts, and my bedroom was tainted with a permanent Tuscan leather smell. The white textured wallpaper turned beige over time, a physical map of my decay. I didn’t just let it happen — I wanted this.
My life felt too easy, too untouched by struggle. So, I manufactured it. I told myself it was for art, a story worth writing. My plan? Trash my self-preservation, mine the wreckage for material, and spin it into a script. I’d sell it, find success, and magically discover solace. That was the lie I clung to.
But no script was ever written. There were fragments, ideas, and a few stray words. The rest was swallowed by depression and psychosis. My plan was built on no safety nets and no “what ifs.” Just freefall. I dove headfirst into destruction, certain it was the only path to salvation. My pain would be my muse, my turmoil the fuel for my fire.
Instead, I romanticized ruin. Every bender, every reckless decision, became another rung on the ladder to greatness — or so I told myself. Stupidity. Naivety. Delusion. I drank them all like truth serum. I believed chaos could be neatly packaged, sold, and stamped as brilliance.
The summer bled into my benders, each one more detached from the person I used to be. Reflection? No. Reality sneaked in through the cracks, wearing an existential mask, whispering, “You’re nothing.”
God, the universe is a dark comedian with a twisted sense of humor.
Months Later
The wolves were back. The bass from the living room throbbed through the floor as I sat in my room, a sterile fortress scrubbed clean of clutter. Even the shower door sparkled. I wasn’t in the mood, but my roommate burst in like a battering ram.
“What the hell are you doing? Get out here,” he said, his voice already drunk with anticipation.
“I’m okay,” I replied, but it didn’t matter. He was relentless.
I caved, as I always did. Slipping down the hallway, past the pulsating energy of the living room, I made my way to the garage — our sacred circle. The space was absurd, a collage of found furniture: a duct-taped leather couch, a cigarette-scarred sleeper sofa, lawn chairs, and bar stools. It looked like the aftermath of a yard sale gone wrong.
The garage was packed with strangers. I took a joint from someone’s outstretched hand, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke smooth the edges of my mood. A few hits were all I needed. No conversations, no small talk. I left the garage and walked back inside, the music and laughter muffled behind me.
On my way to the kitchen, I passed the laundry room and paused. The layout of the house was strange — rooms placed at random like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. The laundry room had a half-bath, and from behind the door, I heard coughing and muffled voices.
I knocked. “Everything okay in there?”
The door cracked open, revealing a girl in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her short, curvy frame. Her fingers chipped black nail polish and all, gripped the doorframe. She looked rough, her face a mix of annoyance and worry.
“She’s not okay,” she said, stepping aside to reveal the girl behind her.
The second girl was slumped over the toilet, her pale face streaked with makeup. Her hair clung to her damp forehead, and her body trembled with every shallow breath.
“What happened?” I asked. My high has kicked in.
“She only had one drink,” the hoodie girl replied. “She’s on antidepressants or something. It’s messing her up.”
One of my roommates, David, appeared behind me. He glanced at the scene, his face tightening with concern. He leaned in and whispered, “If she’s on that kind of medication, she could die.”
The haze lifted, and suddenly the party felt miles away. The girl on the floor wasn’t some random drunk chick; she was fragile, teetering on the edge of something I didn’t fully understand.
“Should we call someone?” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
I couldn’t shake David’s words. The girl looked like she was sinking, her breath was shallow, and her body was limp. I crouched beside her, careful not to touch her. “Hey, can you hear me? What’s your name?”
Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. She mumbled something I couldn’t make out.
“Let’s get her out of this bathroom and over to my room,” I said to David. He nodded and stepped into the tight space. Together, David and I picked up the girl, wrapping her dead arms around our necks and walking through the party towards my room. In hindsight, this may not have been a good look.
We got to my room, where there was a side party, consisting of only girls and gay men. I was used to this, but was surprised at how fast they came to claim my room as their own.
We slide the girl off our shoulders and sit her down near the toilet in my bathroom. Her skin is still nearly translucent. I looked at David.
“I’m not sure what to do here,” I said. He looked down at her, staring at her like she could be the life-altering mistake we have to live with, while behind bars.
I kneeled down next to her to inspect her closely. I tucked her hair back behind her ears and cleaned her face with a wet wipe. I noticed that while tending to her, she stopped her heavy breathing. I wiped her nose, to which she started to lick her lips. I yelled, “David! Grab me that Red Bull out of my mini fridge.” David grabs the Red Bull and hands it to me. I crack it open.
In my customer service voice, “I need you to drink this. It’s going to make you feel better, okay?” I put the can to her mouth. She drinks about half of what I pour; the rest flows across her face.
She slowly lifts her arm and reaches up for my hand. She grabs my hand, holding the can, and pushes it up to pour faster.
It’s working.
Her eyes start to open as she finishes the rest of the Red Bull. David walks out and tells her friends that she’s going to be okay. Her friends come to check on her. I stand up and lean against my bathroom counter.
I think to myself, “This has to be my sign to move out of here.” I can't stop staring at this girl. She’s symbolic, but I can’t figure out how. I take a breath and look over at one of her roommates leaning against the counter next to me.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed her until this point. She’s the one. She’s perfect. She’s quiet, reserved, but you can tell she has an internalized attitude when given the opportunity — everything I look for in a woman. I tell her I want to know everything about her. She starts telling me where she is from. Her name. The essentials. But before I could really dive in, her other roommate threatened to call the police because of the scene she was witnessing. I couldn’t blame her. She is from Utah.
I’ve never experienced so much anger towards someone for ruining such a moment. I ask the girl to walk away from the scene with me. I look her dead in the eye and tell her that I know where she lives. I reaffirm to her that her roommate is okay and that it’s handled. She was not buying my affirmations, but I mixed a few minor threats to make sure she understood this was not the thing I was going down for.
I look back at the dying roommate, and she had finally sat up. Once I noticed her coming back to this dimension, I gathered the group of girls — including the love of my life — and told them they are no longer welcome in my home.
Two of the guys carry the girl to the car, while the others are complaining that they drove separately and did not deserve the treatment I was bestowing upon them. I blocked all of it out. I focused on the one. I asked for her number. She replied, “Are you serious?” I’ve never been more serious in my entire life. Luckily, she saw what I saw. She felt what I felt.