I woke up wondering about him. What he was doing, how was he? I don't know why because I hardly knew him. I guess he made an impression on me or maybe it was just that when my friend said to me “I really liked him”. It was with such weight that I knew that it was true. True in ways that I had never experienced and could not understand.
Now I think I do.
I hadn't seen him or heard about him for so long. In fact, the last time I heard about him was when he OD'd. Now that I am waking up it is making sense. Of course, he's dead he's been dead a long time now.

Sometimes an entire batch of heroin will be twice as potent as usual or maybe it will not even be heroin at all. It will be something else, something lethal. And that is what happened that day,

It is strange that I would wake up thinking of him, when someone I knew much better also OD'd that same day. The one I knew, I couldn't say I really liked him though. I had gotten over that a long time ago. A survival instinct had developed in me. An aversion to the sick, I hated him. I hated the way he would try to hold my hand in public, the way he would bring me flowers, even the sound of his breathing repulsed me. I got him a job, but it didn't work out. I only slept with him once, it was lousy and I didn't know it had made pregnant, till I miscarried and almost bled to death, I never told him though. I stopped talking to him.

I didn't see him for about two years and when I did, he was proud to introduce me to his fiancée and to tell me how his life was coming together. I sensed this desperation in him, a desperation that I believe in him, but I couldn't.

He OD'd in front the television and a friend of ours found him about a week later.
The idea of the television keeping him company while he died and him rotting there front of it disgusted me. I hated him for losing and I hated having to survive.