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Thirteen years ago:
Sometimes,the darkness and sadness that grips your heart come from something so visceral, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s impossible to ignore, and it drives you to do reckless, stupid, hopeless things…like stand on cliff edges with cinderblocks tied to your ankle.
Other times, like in Layla’s case, that darkness just sort of…happens. And there’s no telling when, or how hard it’ll hit.
Depression is amotherfucker.
So is addiction.
The machines looming over Layla’s hospital bed beep rhythmically. I grit my teeth so hard it hurts as I stand there looking down at my best friend.
She looks so frail. So weak. Almost lifeless already.
How the fuck did it come to this?
Layla’s always said she has an addictive personality. I’ve seen that clearly over the two years that we’ve been friends. Cigarettes are the big one. But also guys who should’ve treated her so much better. And no, it’snota jealousy thing on my part, seeing Layla date shitheads who treat her like dirt. It’s…protectiveness.
Layla is objectively speaking a very pretty girl, but there’s nothing between us. And nobody on campus would assume wewerean item, because we hang out in private.
Not because either of us is ashamed of the other or anything. It’s just that she’s got her own world, with her own friends and her brothers Gabriel and Alistair, and I’ve got mine, with Carmy and Nico, and the other mafia types.
Layla says our platonic relationship is because I remind her of her brothers in different ways. She also says it’s because she’s my “wish dot com version of Claudia”, which feels somehow disrespectful to both herandmy dead sister, and yet is also hilarious.
Hilarious.
I look down at the shell of a girl lying half-dead in the hospital bed.
No one’s laughing anymore. Because Layla’s addictive personality finally found its match, after getting bored with cigarettes and terrible boyfriends.
A year ago, Layla foundheroin.
I will forever hate the day she did.
It’s not the first time she’s taken too much. I shot her full of adrenaline and drove her to a walk-in clinic when I found her in pretty bad shape once. I’ve put her into rehabtwice.
I’ve almost told her brothers a hundred times. But I haven’t, because she’s begged me over and over not to. Layla’s never wanted her family to know about her demons.
I’ve wrestled with that ever since I found out about her addiction: telling them and potentially getting her more help, at the cost of losing her friendship. It’s a trade I’d be willing to make, for her sake. But she’s also not above bringing up that night we met at the cliff, and the way she saved my life.
So I’ve always kept silent.
Today, I fuckinghatemyself for it.
Things don’t look good. Her heart is shot: the surface has become infected. The doctor told me half an hour ago that it would take a miracle for her to see tomorrow, and suggested I start saying my goodbyes.
Layla’s eyelids slowly flutter open, and she makes a dry choking sound. I quickly grab the water from the bedside table and bring the straw to her parched lips.
After she swallows, her head sinks back into the pillow, a pained expression on her face. She turns away from me.
“I fucked up, didn’t I, Dante?”
When I don’t say anything, she glances back at me.
“How bad?”
This time it’s me that looks away.
“Shit,” she murmurs quietly. Tears bead in her eyes as she swallows thickly. “Fuck, Alistair and Gabriel are going to be so fucking angry at me for this.”
