Hours pass, and not quickly by any means, but it feels like a second because, well, I've been high out of my mind, thinking about everything from how ants build their little societies to the meaning of life, talking nonsense with Kell and also having to answer the question Are you sure you're okay? an embarrassing amount of times.
Kell left (I can't for the life of me remember his reason) and I laid down in bed. It's more than possible that I fell asleep and had dreams so vivid I don't remember sleeping.
Once I have to turn a light on to see, well, anything in our room, I decide it's time for my nightly Xanax. Most days I split the 10 milligrams I take so I do maybe 2-3 in the morning, 2-3 around lunch, 1-2 in the afternoon if necessary, and the rest in the evening because that's when my anxiety's at it's worse.
Today, I can't remember how much I've taken during the course of the day, so I go with 5 milligrams and pray that Sam won't pay any attention to it.
Although it would be pretty nice to have a cute guy with a nice voice gently tell you to stop doing drugs and that they care about you.
Not that that's going to happen. And, like, I mean that, you know, objectively. In my case it'd be a girl. Because I'm clearly straight, seeing as I, again, put on my nicest sweater over my t-shirt to look a little less like a complete mess.
I stuff the Xanax in my pocket, and head out to the kitchen.
It's oddly quiet in the dorm. Maybe it's later than I thought. Maybe there's a party I don't know about. 22 really isn't old, but I'm kind of starting to feel like I might be excluded from certain things now that I'm in an environment with mostly 19-year-olds. Or they just hate me for being me. Very possible.
Sam gives me a quick glance. Well, kind of glance. You know those glances when they look as if they're excited to see someone, and you're not that person so their expression falls when they see you? It was kind of like that, only Sam looked like he already hated that someone entered the kitchen from the start, and then he double hated it when that person was me.
"Are you mad?" I ask, regretting it immediately afterwards. It was meant to come out in a joking tone. Instead it sounds small, and desperate.
Usually when I ask those kinds of question, the other person smiles and tells me they're not, and that it's just my anxiety fucking with me.
Sam, however, lets out a deep sigh. "Yes, Aiden, I am." He sits straighter and turns to me, arm resting on the back of the chair. "I don't know why I have to tell you this, but stop giving Kell drugs. If you want to keep doing it? Fine. Do that. But don't drag him into it just for the sake of fun. It's not fun. He has enough self-destructive behaviours as it is, and you know that."
To avoid eye contact, I grab a glass of water as he's speaking. Probably not a good idea when his tone sounds this irritated, but crying because he stares straight into my soul doesn't sound all that great either. "Well, I mean, it's just weed."
When I turn back to him, he's doing just that—glaring straight through me. It feels great, and not at all like my chances of even being friends with him are slowly fading.
"Seriously?" he says. "No, it's not just weed. You start off doing it once a week, then several times a week, then every day, then multiple times every day, and then it's not having the desired effect anymore, and you go on to do worse drugs that not only—apparently—make you stupid, but also ruins your life. Don't tell me I'm wrong because I've seen Kell go down similar paths before, and it always ends up with him regretting ever starting in the first place, so just don't fucking make him. Go smoke weed with your drug friends if company is that important."
