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 since 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, 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.
August 12th, 2022
The wolves were back. Bass from the living room throbbed through the floor as I sat in my room, a sterile fortress stripped of clutter. Even the shower door sparkled. I wasn’t in the mood, but my roommate burst in like a battering ram.
“Gav, what the hell are you doing? Get out here,” he said, his voice already buzzing with anticipation.
“I’m good,” I said, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t backing down.
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. That was 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 were 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 chipped black nail polish clung to her fingers as she 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 was streaked with makeup. Her hair clung to her damp forehead, and her body trembled with every shallow breath.
“What happened?” I asked. My high had 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. Suddenly, the party felt miles away. The girl on the floor wasn’t just 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, her body 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, we picked her up, wrapping her arms around our shoulders and walking through the party toward my room. In hindsight, it probably didn’t look great.
We got to my room, where a smaller side party was happening. Just girls and gay guys. I was used to that, but I was surprised at how fast they had claimed the space as their own.
We slid the girl off our shoulders and sat her near the toilet in my bathroom. Her skin was still nearly translucent. I looked at David.
“I’m not sure what to do here,” I said.
He looked down at her, staring like she might be the life-altering mistake we’d have to live with if things went south.
I knelt down next to her for a closer look. I tucked her hair behind her ears and cleaned her face with a wet wipe. As I did, I noticed she had stopped the heavy breathing. I wiped her nose, and she started to lick her lips.
I yelled, “David, grab me that Red Bull from my mini fridge.”
He handed it to me, and I cracked it open.
In my customer service voice, “Anna, I need you to drink this. It’s going to make you feel better, okay?”
I put the can to her mouth. She drank about half of what I poured. The rest flowed down her chin.
Then she slowly raised her arm and grabbed my hand. She pushed the can up to drink faster.
It was working.
Her eyes started to open as she finished the rest of the Red Bull. David walked out and told her friends she was going to be okay. They came in to check on her. I stood up and leaned against my bathroom counter.
I thought to myself, “This has to be my sign to move out of here.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her. She felt symbolic, but I couldn’t figure out what she meant.