If someone were to believe that a tornado had passed through my apartment, I would not have blamed them.

But it was in reality far worse. I saw my roommate in the corner, in an undershirt and boxers, rooting through a cupboard.

“Where’d you put my painkillers?” He asked, shooting me a glare.

“If you can’t govern yourself, I’ll have to. I’m not about to call the cops on you but I can’t let you kill yourself.”

“Oh, fuck off."

I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’m not going to tell you where they are. You broke your leg three years ago. You don’t need them anymore. And I’m done with the cops coming here every other week because your dealer ratted you out."

Why I bothered trying to helping him anymore, I didn’t know. Maybe it was his dreams of being a musician that made me think this way. From when we were kids, I was always more positive. But he had dreams. I hoped.

This behaviour had really started when he was fourteen, a decade ago now. He did weed sometimes. I knew that it was not a good idea for him—he had the kind of personality that made you think he might hurt himself. But what was I supposed to do?

I didn’t know.

When he broke his leg, and couldn’t work to afford his place anymore, I offered to let him move in with me because I needed a roommate anyways. We agreed that I would pay rent until he could get on his feet, then he’d help me. Three years later, and he still didn’t have a job. Sure, he gigged sometimes, but he didn’t get much. I didn’t care that much about the money—at this point I had decided to just keep Avery alive—but he wasn’t really even trying. He mostly stayed at the apartment and did Oxycontin.

I sighed, and added, “Avery, you need help. I know you’ve gone to rehab before, but this is just getting excessive now. I struggle to make enough for rent, let alone for both of us to eat. If you want, I will drive you” (his license got revoked a year ago) “and maybe we can find some work for you as a session guy. You need to move on.”