Gone

Sitting in a cold, dark room of my apartment, I can still remember that moment. Mingling at a party I saw her, beautiful. I took her home that night, wonderful.

It’s said that love can be addicting, make you willing to do anything for the one you love. I was addicted, and wondered if she was too.

I thought at first it was nothing, her addiction, something that would go away with time. Sometimes I would even give her money to buy it, because I loved her. I hoped that with time and my love, she would be able to rid herself of that vice; it only got worse.

I tried to get her to quit, even admitted I used to smoke a little. She laughed and said that was easier to quit than smoking cigarettes. Besides she didn’t want to quit. There wasn’t a problem she said. I refused to buy it. When I came home she was gone.

I was shocked and wandered the streets for awhile, dazed, not really seeing anything. Until I saw him: the one that sold things to her. So I bought, because I needed to know how she could love this addiction over mine. As I turned to leave I shot him, nothing special, just shot him, and now he’s gone.

I feel disjointed, not part of me, swirling in grief and pain, images come and go but still no answers. Why did she love it, why did I have to love her? There was nothing there, no feeling of euphoric love, only emptiness. I go over to the sink, crunching the empty vial with my foot. Rinse, spit, the taste is still there. I go back to my seat where I sit and then put the gun to my mouth. Pull. For a moment I feel warmth. Now I’m gone.