With a line of coke fresh up her nose, she tells my roommate she's going to kill herself. I'm at home digesting my own bit of news. My roommate tells me she's on her way home with some takeout and beer, but she stays gone for days.
When she finally comes home, she staggers down the hall at midnight, left to right, left to right, before landing in a heap on the love seat in our kitchen. Beverly is still cascading with sinus rockets. She didn't kill herself, but her dependency on the drugs make her want to.
I've known too many people who died for their own sins, including addiction. They are their own row of dominoes, falling as if they were birthed on an incline. I have sympathy for the person captivated by their own disease, but not for the one who finds themselves in the same circle, digging their heals deeper and deeper into the trenches wondering why things haven't changed.
My roommate comes with a softer side but she's so prone to cinder blocks like Beverly, I'm lately starting to think that if the girl that I respect so much is more of a reflection of who I want her to be and less of who she is. I can't deal with one Beverly, a girl I've only heard of in passing and I refuse to live with one.
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