Paint A Picture On Me

Quince

I'm up his stairs in a flash. I don't bother knocking on Kellin's door before I rush in and pull him from where he was slumped on his beanbag chair and right into my arms. He tensed up at first, but one sob later he turned to mush. He buries his head in my shoulder and grips the back of my shirt for dear life, hiccuping breathlessly.

"No, no," he says pushing me away. "We have to talk. You need to know."

"Know what?" I ask worriedly. He hesitates, chewing his lip and looking at me with fear shadowing his eyes.

"You're going to hate me," he whispers weakly.

"I could never hate you," I say, stepping closer, but he moves away. I feel a stinging sensation in my gut and step back, giving him his space. "What is it, Kellin?"

"I-I..." he stops, sighing and nodding, mumbling something under his breath. "I'm a-a... I'm a recovering drug addict."

My stomach dropped, sending a sick feeling through me as I feel my last meal {rhyme} rising back up my esophagus. He couldn't be. Not Kellin. No. That's not him. He's sweet and innocent, surely he wouldn't - no - couldn't be into that horrid garbage.

"I knew-," he sobs. "I knew you would hate me. I tried to hide it, but I can't. It keeps getting worse. I'm scared I'll go back. I just thought... maybe...maybe you could've helped."

My heartstrings tug, but I can't see him as a victim right now. He's in so much pain, but he had gotten himself into it. I know how these people work. I've studied them for two years now. They almost always fall back in and it tears apart their life. He'll tear me apart with him. He's not a good influence on me. I can't become one of those animals I hunt down.

"Say something," he pleads. His hands move towards me, but he isn't close enough to reach.

"How come?" I blurt out, my voice rough as I choke on my thoughts. He isn't one of those animals. He can't be. This is Kellin we're talking about. My Kellin. He's not one of those impulsive criminals. He doesn't have their ferocious animosity.

"I don't- I don't know. Alan he-he's persuasive and I needed something. My life felt unnatural and I just... I wanted some time off." So Alan was his dealer. I'll kill him.

"That's not how you get it, Kells," I whimper. His face drops and he nods.

"I know... I was desperate. Alan's persuasive and once he saw that I hesitated he wouldn't leave me alone." He pauses for a minute, but only that. "I've been clean for two months. It's been so hard and it isn't getting any easier. I just... I've lost hope. I want to go back to them every second of everyday."

"Fuck," I breathe. He's trying so hard.

"I'm sorry to put this on you. It's not fair, and I know that. I just... I can't do this anymore. I need help. Vic, I need..." he's crying now. "I need help. Jus-just-... help," he chokes weakly. My heart breaks and I pull him into me.

It wasn't pot. Pot is what it is, it's not very addictive. People simply get hooked on the the ignorance it exudes. He wouldn't be battling withdrawal with only having done pot.

"What was it?" I ask him, nervous for the answer. Please, God, Jesus Christ make it anything but heroin.

"Molly," he whispers. Fuck.

He wants help, Vic. He deserves help. He isn't a monster. This is Kellin. You know him, you know him. Kellin. He's that sweet as honey boy, with the award winning smile. He's the guy that talked and talked just so you would stay on your bladed feet. He's the friend that was there for you at your worst moments, holding your hand and supporting whatever weight you couldn't bear. He deserves the same.