have. It doesn’t care if you’re living in the slums of Brooklyn or in a cushy house in suburban Long Island.
If it wants you, it’ll grab you. Now, it had me, and it was holding on tight.
Vinnie was slumped on the couch beside me, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. I checked his chest to make sure he was breathing, and released a sigh of relief when I realized he was only sleeping. Sometimes his depression won out and it didn’t matter how high he was; he still fell asleep. Because sometimes, it was better to be asleep, than it was to be sad and stoned.
My buzz had begun to wear off and there was no way I was going through the rest of the night with his father’s somber expression keeping me on edge. So, with Vinnie’s old gift card, I finished lining it up, nice and neat, just the way he did. I got to my knees, and before I took the hit, I glanced at his father.
“Please go away,” I whispered, hoping he’d listen. “Whatever you have to say to him, you’ll have to go to someone else. It won’t be me. I can’t do it.”
He didn’t listen, he never did. But in the past, he’d simply stand there, staring vacantly at his youngest son, until I was too high to notice his presence. Tonight, however, I was presented with an image through the static; a still picture of Vinnie, laying on the floor of the apartment. Motionless and breathless.
Lifeless.
I gasped, as tears immediately sprung to my eyes. The image faded and my vision focused entirely on Vincent and his firm stare, still aimed directly at Vinnie.
“I-Is he going to die?” I asked, my voice small and weak. But I was answered with silence, of course I was, and I wasn't in the mood. “What the hell is the point of doing this to me if you can't even fucking talk? Huh?”
Vincent's gaze shifted to meet mine. There was no other movement, no other acknowledgement, and my frantic agony only escalated.
“Oh, God, fuck you. Fuck all of you. If you're not going to help, then just go the fuck away!” My eyes dropped to the rows of white powder and driven by determination, I said, “You know what? I'll just make you go away.”
I snorted one line, two lines, and then, I waited, watching as the drugs took over and took him away. The apartment was quiet again, with no more static and visions, but that sight of Vinnie, laying on the floor, remained. And the despair I felt in that moment was so much greater than the high I was desperately trying to reach.
The problem with this ability, other than the inability to control it, is that I can only read whatever they show me. I don’t always know what it means, or what they want, and that was very much the case in this situation.
“Fuck,” I cried, throwing my head back against the couch.
Vinnie stirred beside me. “Andy,” he rasped, and I imagined not hearing that name again. The name only he called me. A quick pinch of death tore violently at my heart and my body shook with a sob.
“Sweetheart,” he said with urgency, sliding off the couch to sit beside me on the floor. He gathered my face in his hands and kissed the salty tears from my cheeks. “Andy, sweetheart, why are you crying? What happened?”
“If y-you die, I'll die,” I cried, pressing my forehead to his and grasping his t-shirt in my fists. “I don't want to die. Not yet. So, you can't die, baby. P-Please, don't die.”
His eyes, so full of life, found mine. “Sweetheart, why ... why do you keep saying this shit?”
“I'm just so, s-so scared,” I whispered, sobbing and squeezing my eyes shut against another torrent of tears.
“Stop, okay? Just stop,” he said, soothing me with his voice and gentle fingers through my hair. “We're okay. We're always going to be okay.”
I forced myself to nod. “I just l-love you s-so fucking much,” I said, moving my hands from his shirt to his cheeks. “I want this forever. I want you forever.”
“You got me, sweetheart,” he replied, pressing kiss after kiss to my lips and cheeks.
“Then ...” I grasped his face, his hair, his neck, and I looked into his eyes, remembering so vividly the image of him dead. I didn't know what it meant. If it meant he had to die, I didn't know