Did she even notice I was gone? I think she knew I'd left, but I don't think she cared. I don't know why I cared so much if she wanted me back. Maybe it's because I'm the worst kind of person without her.
A promise breaker. A cheater. A liar. I was pretty fucking awful before I met her. Her long, blonde hair was tucked behind her ears when we first met. She doesn't do that anymore. She told me she hated her ears, but it was a habit to absentmindedly brush her hair behind them. I'd never met anyone who could just retreat into their own thoughts so easily and so often.
She never was a very serious girl. She laughed a lot and never took anything to heart. She used to. Before she changed. At first it was slow, and then all at once, like a cancer.
No one loved music like her. She didn't just listen to it, she absorbed it. She knew every lyric as soon as she listened to it. She had a massive music collection. CDs, iPods, cassettes, even a walkman. She always had music playing. In the background, or in her own head.
She could sing, too. Her voice wasn't perfect, but in that Kurt Cobaim kind of way. It was good and she was always singing. Singing along to her songs, humming it to herself, tapping her fingers to a tune no one else could here. Music filled her brain and her attention.
But when it came to us, she always listened. She would really listen to everything I said and she would actually care about it. She never pretended to listen. That might be my favorite thing about her.
I say that, but the I think of how her straight, blonde hair would always lay just right. And her eyelids would always be a little droopy like she was always tired. And how her smile was crooked. And how red her lips were. And how her freckles dotted her cheekbones and her nose.
But all that was gone now. She wasn't the same and she would never be again. I left because she started smoking meth. She had first tried it at a party we went to. Someone offered it to her, told her it was this new drug and it would make her feel better than she ever felt. And that one time, that one hit, it got her hooked for good.
At first it was only once every now and then, when she had a bad day at work or she hadn't listened to enough music to satisfy her that day. But then its started to be every week, and then every day, and then twice a day, and then she would have days where all she would do was smoke meth. She would take hit after hit, chasing the first high that had made the endorphins in her brain go wild.
Meth made her stop listening to music. She didn't crave songs anymore, she craved a high. After a while, she wasn't happy anymore. She lost the glow that always seemed to follow her like a faithful dog. She lost her droopy eyelids. They were always wide open and twitchy and she was always scratching her skin until she got open sores. Her blonde hair was always unkempt and knotted and it wasn't as blonde as it used to be.
I tried to get her help. But rehabs don't take people who don't want help. I tried hiding her stash. I tried to find her dealer. I even held her down when she was screaming and crying, begging and pleading me to give it back. She refused to admit she had a problem. I tried. I tried so hard to help. I loved her so much it killed me to leave. You have to believe me when I say it leaving was the last thing I wanted to do, but she couldn't be helped.
I feel like I've left her to die, like a wounded animal. I feel like I've let her down. I feel like I'm betraying her. But I can't stand watching her hurt herself like this. I can't watch her shake and scream and hurt herself anymore. She would hallucinate something terrible and just scream and scream for hours. I couldn't take it anymore.
When I left, she was asleep for the first time in days. It was dark, and in the dim light, she almost looked normal. But she was too skinny. She'd always had a full body. She had hips and breasts and curves. I tried to get her to eat, but she'd spit it out or choke on it and I had to give her the Heimlich. Her skin clung to her bones like tight clothes. I was scared for her. But she wasn't the same anymore. I don't think she even thought about anything anymore.
I don't know if I'll ever be the same again. I worry that I'll see her dead on the news. I worry I'll never see her again. I worry no one will ever even notice she's gone. I worry no one will remember her old self. I worry everyone will dismiss her as a pathetic drug addict. Even though that's what she is.
I don't know what to do with myself. I think I'll just end up dying of guilt. I can't take the thought of her dead. I can't see myself ever moving on. She will die, I know that. I don't have hope anymore, I lost it a long time ago. But I can't let go. I can't act like nothing ever happened. That her 25 years of life wasn't the greatest miracle for me to ever stumble upon. Cheating, lying, promise-breaking me.
It's over. I'm over. She's over.
