Poppy Tears Become Her

Somewhere in the United States...

I woke up under a bridge somewhere in the United States, at least I think. I decided at that very moment that I was never doing heroin again. Never in my long life have I experienced a trip like that. For God's sake, I even forgot my own damn name. I had no idea where 'Esme' came from, but personally, I preferred Pat.
I tried to set up but was stopped abruptly by a splitting headache and a gross feeling of nausea. Giving in and laying back down immediately, I decided to take a good look at the world around me. The real world, that is. It was gray, bland, and smelled of gas, smoke, and vomit. The lake just beneath me was a sickly greenish-brown colour, and trash was bobbing up and down on it's surface. The dark gray sky was streaked with even darker gray clouds, and the bridge was the only thing stopping the torrential downpour from soaking me. This was all made so much worse by the splitting pain in my head and my churning stomach. I could not help but blame all of it, all the ugliness and pain, on smack. I was really never doing heroin again.
After grounding myself a little, I was slightly less nauseous. And, though my brain may have felt like a poorly constructed puzzle, I still managed to remember that I was not alone. I looked to my left and saw two empty syringes, a small Ziploc bag still half full of nasty-looking brown powder, a spoon, a lighter, and a woman. I recognized her immediately as my best friend Carole. She was laying on her side facing away from me, still as a statue. I figured she was still out.
"Carole," I rasped with all the enthusiasm I could muster. No response. I got up carefully, as to not agitate my body farther, and crawled across the rocks towards her. I flipped her onto her back and gasped, recoiling backward in horror. She was white as a ghost with lips and fingers as blue as arctic ice. Her beautiful hazel eyes were fogged over and rolled back in her head, and her hair, face, and shirt were all caked in vomit. I could barely recognize her.
"Carole!" I sobbed, forgetting entirely about my own pain. I scrambled back across the rocks to her side, anxiety-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins. I placed my fingers on her neck to check her pulse and her skin was as clammy and cold as a lonely winter night. There was nothing. No breath, no heartbeat, just a shell of what used to be my very best friend. It was real. She had let go of life, let go of me, for real. How could something so fanciful have led to such certain and unyielding consequences? How could she have known that if she let herself go, if she enjoyed all the lunacy just a little too much, it would consume her?
"Carole, Carole," I sobbed inaudibly, hoping by some miracle that I could call her back to me. But, though every cell within me protested, I knew she was gone. I blamed that little bag of brown powder, those syringes, that spoon, that world, myself. She was stolen from this planet all too early because of it, because of me. I lay my aching head on her vomit-covered chest in acquiescence. I was really, really never doing heroin again.