TRIGGER WARNING: Drug use, Addiction, Death

When Marcy first handed me the pipe, it was during her graduation party. She had just graduated with her Masters degree in sociology. I guess with the stress of her courses, she needed something to take the edge off.

We had always been close, despite the route I took after High School (I’ve never been much of a scholar). Marcy went to a prestigious college and I got a job as a stock clerk at a small grocery store owned by one of my Dad’s friends.

Marcy was a straight A student and somehow managed to maintain that while spending nearly every day with her “stoner” friend. Her parents don’t realize that Marcy is the one that flirted with the troubled kid that sold pot in 9th grade. She’s the one that always got us into parties. She’s the one that wanted an escape from the pressure. As her best friend, I could’ve stopped her. I didn’t want to. I needed an escape too but I’m a coward. I needed someone to escape with me.

I had never expect things to end up the way they did. I really thought we were having fun and that eventually, we would grow out of it.

So when Marcy handed me the pipe full of heroin, she said, “A sprinkle of pixie dust, a five letter word, and a little bit of hope can change your whole life…”

She sunk down into the couch further after her hit and had such a peaceful expression on her face. Then she said, “Smack. Five letters. Do I win a prize?” and giggled. When her eyes were closed as she moved her head to the music, I pretended to take a hit and mimicked her lazy euphoria. Later, she told me that this was the first drug that helped her to feel truly happy. She said she had never been happy before she began smoking heroin.

She got a job with social services and spent a good few years excelling in her field. We sort of lost touch after a few nights of me pretending to partake in a drug that cost so many people so much.

Until she showed up at my apartment one night asking for a place to sleep. She was in a tube top and sweatpants. She had lost a lot of weight, turning from her standard attractive self to someone with a gaunt look. Her arms were marked up, and I could only assume that underneath her socks and Michael Kors sandals were more marks. Her hair was undone, her makeup was unable to cover the acne and sores on her face.

I let her in and we pretended no time had passed. She seemed anxious and talked very quickly. She seemed to be afraid of something. She told me that she had lost her job and with it, eventually her apartment.

Then, in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of vomiting. She had her head in the toilet and was violently shaking. I pulled her hair back and got her in the shower, all the while wondering why she showed up to my apartment. It didn’t seem like the appropriate time to ask.

In the morning, I got ready for work. I went out to the living room to wake Marcy up, but she wasn’t there. No note and no trace of her other than the bit of makeup left on my pillow and some vomit chunks in the bowl of my guest bathroom toilet.

A few weeks later, Marcy’s mom called me. She asked why Marcy stopped responding to her calls and if I could talk to her about that. It was heartbreaking to find out that Marcy had been telling her family that she had moved in with me.

An unidentified woman was found in the alley behind the fancy craft beer brewery about 15 minutes from my place. She was beat to death in a drug deal gone wrong. Apparently she had the same Michael Kors sandals as Marcy. I pray that it’s a coincidence.

I never heard from Marcy again.