Mike* died in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital. I only found this out the morning after we had decided to have one last ‘hoo-rah’ and get high together. I had bought the stuff, two bags for each of us. Total cost? Forty dollars. That meant that I had spent a paltry twenty bucks to kill my friend. But I didn’t kill him, at least, not intentionally. I warned him to test the stuff first but he didn’t listen and inhaled both bags. He immediately went on the nod. I did half of one bag and, just as immediately, knew something was wrong. I sat at his kitchen table and rested my head on my right arm and passed out. When I came to, my arm from elbow down was numb and my hand was useless. Mike was still passed out, only he wasn’t breathing properly and he was a bluish tint. I immediately called 911 and gave him CPR until the paramedics burst into the apartment and carried him out on a stretcher. I gave my remaining stash to the police who tested it. It was cut with strychnine. The dealers had used rat poison to cut the dope. At Mike’s wake, members of his family thanked me. Apparently, Mike had overdosed before and was simply dumped on his front lawn and left to the hand of fate. His family thanked me because I had called 911. Every “thank you” solidified my guilt; I had, after all, paid for the shit that ended my friend’s life. But his family treated me like I was some kind of heroine. Which makes me wonder: was I the heroine? Or the heroin?
*Names have been changed to respect identity.
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