I'd been hoping my mother wouldn't come home as I was packing my bags, but she must have gotten off work early, because the next thing I knew she was standing in the doorway of my bedroom, arms crossed over her chest, just watching me. I had no idea how long she'd been there.

"I see you've made your choice," she said when I finally turned and saw her there.

I held a t-shirt in one hand, a floppy open backpack in the other. It was the worst moment of my whole life.

"Um. . . yeah. . . I think," I mumbled.

"Are you taking the fish?"

I glanced over at my tank. "Yeah. I want to."

"I'll get Lars to move them for you this weekend."

"Thanks."

I zipped up the bag, it was deafeningly loud, and threw it on the pile of my other stuff. I could not look at her; I couldn't even look at her feet, shoved into the uncomfortable black heels she had to wear to work, no matter what. At that moment I had no idea which one of us felt worse. It was the afternoon of the next day, a gray-black bruise still blooming on the crook of my arm. I'd spent the whole night at Ian's for the first time. We'd woken up, eaten breakfast, showered; I hadn't thought it wise to invite him over while I packed, so he'd stayed there waiting for me, promising a surprise when I came back. I was supposed to be at school, technically, it was a Monday, but I'd needed the day off.

"Mom. . . I. . ." I started pathetically. Nothing seemed right. I was horrible and I knew it. I had failed as a daughter. I'd spent my whole life trying to be perfect so I could make up for being the mistake that I was, but now that was all over; what was the point of trying?

She breathed deeply and finally looked at my face, but I couldn't look back. "Bri, just remember one thing: when it gets really bad, you can always come back here, no matter how much you've changed or how hurt you are or how much you've screwed up. Okay? Always."

"Okay," I said, staring at the floor, hearing my voice waver as I fought back tears.

"Stay in school. You're so close to being done forever," she said.

"Yeah, I will."

"And Briana?"

"What?"

"The drugs aren't worth it. They never are."

I could have said something mean and defensive, but I didn't want to fight. I knew that this was it, the last time I was going to see her for a very long time; I didn't want to ruin it. So I nodded silently and walked past her out my bedroom door, not looking back. The one thing I noticed was that neither of us reached out to hug the other. I guess it was a little like why I couldn't look at her face; it wasn't that we were angry or that we didn't want to, it just hurt too much. I couldn't look back either; I didn't want her to see I was crying.

-

Ian wasn't there when I got back to his apartment (our apartment?), but he had made me my own key and I let myself in. It was dark and too cold; I turned down the AC. Then I turned on the tv, toasted a blueberry Pop Tart for dinner, and plopped myself down on the couch to wait.

1 Hour. 2 Hours. 3 Hours. 4 Hours. Officially dark outside. 5 Hours. 6 Hours. 7 Hours. 8 hours. Close to midnight now.

I was getting worried. I'd tried calling his cell hourly but he didn't answer. I paced his bedroom, nervously peeling apart the blinds every few seconds. The street was quiet outside, inky black. Where was he?

I imagined horrible things: Ian dead in a gutter, Ian with another girl, Ian being assaulted by way-bigger dealers. And the worst thing I imagined was that he probably knew I was here and just didn't give a damn. That was the worst thing, because that was the one I knew was probably true. The others were horrible, but sometimes the truth is even worse than the worst thing you can think of.

I couldn't be angry, not really. I'd known perfectly well what I was getting myself into when I'd agreed to move in with Ian. He was always busy, always disappearing, always working one of his two jobs; I was just an accessory, something to come home to. I'd known this, but being faced with it in the middle of the night in a cold dark apartment after the worst day of your life. . . that's hard to swallow.

It was two in the morning when he came home, wearing the patched jeans he'd worn on the first night I'd met him and a faded black hoodie. It was kinda cold outside, this time of night. His cheeks were flushed and his nose was running, but maybe that was because he needed a hit. I could never tell anymore.

"Hey," I said as he shut the door behind him, and he whirled around.

"Wow, Bri- I forgot you were here. Don't freak me out like that!"

"Sorry," I said.

He walked past me and into the kitchen. He smelled like sweet smoke and autumn night air, and he didn't say anything; it was like I wasn't even there.

"Where were you?" I asked, leaning against the counter on my elbows.

"Making up the money I owe Diego."

"How?"

"I sold some stuff."

"Stuff?"

"You know, like crap we don't need."

"Oh."

"Why do you sound so upset?" he asked, opening up the fridge and digging around in the back.

"Um. . . I've been here since three o'clock, sitting on the couch with a Pop Tart watching talk shows and imagining you dead on the street."

"Sorry, baby, didn't have my phone on. The last thing you need in a stressful situation is a bunch of junkies calling you every few seconds."

"Well one of those junkies was me."

"And how am I supposed to know that?"

"Hm. I don't know. Maybe, you could have thought about the fact that I was coming tonight and remembered that I was here all alone waiting for you, even though you said you'd have a surprise for me when I came back. Then maybe, just maybe, you could have picked up the phone to call me and tell me everything was okay."

"I do have a surprise and- damn, Bri, I am not a babysitter. Entertain yourself. I'll have to get you some kinda hamster wheel to run on or something."

"Hilarious."

Ian looked up, pulling out of the fridge with a Red Bull in hand. "Bri, you know me, you know how I live my life. I can't just stop all that and be here twenty-four-seven just because you're here. I thought you understood that when you agreed to move in."

"Yeah. Right. Sure," I said softly, "I'm going to bed."

"I said I was sorry. What more do you want?" he sighed as I headed down the dark hallway.

I shrugged without turning back to look at him. I hated those questions, the ones you just can't answer. I didn't know what more I wanted; I just wanted more than his flimsy explanation and even flimsier apology. I wanted more than feeling the way I did right now, as if I was wrong for being angry even though I couldn't help it.

"I'm going to bed."

"Why?"

"It's two in the freaking morning!" I shouted, feeling the bottle of tightly packed anger explode like a gunshot as I whirled around. "Going to bed is what normal people do right now! The only reason I didn't was because of you, thinking, hm, will I have to bail my boyfriend out of jail? Should I start calling the hospitals?"

Ian didn't react. He grinned at me, walking over and circling his arms around my waist. "Since when are we normal people?"

"I used to be," I said, pulling away from him. "Before you turned me into the paranoid, crazy girlfriend."

He stepped forward, covering the space I'd created, and held me close for a few minutes. I finally allowed myself to relax into his embrace, as pissed off as I still was over the whole mess. Maybe we could just go to bed, hold each other, forget about it. I had school the next day and really needed to hit the sack.

"You wanna go for your second high?" he asked.

It was like he'd hit me. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I was too shocked. Mostly I just felt sickened, with him and with myself.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you want to try it again? I was just about to make a fix."

"Ian. . . I really didn't like what it did to me yesterday. I mean, that's the last thing we need. . . me getting addicted to some ridiculously priced and highly illegal substance."

"All I'm saying is, it's not fair that you just got sick and never really got to feel it."

"If it feels like you say, I can just go do that myself," I smirked.

"It's better than an orgasm."

"Right."

"It is! There's no work involved."

"So you think sex is work?"

Ian smiled. "It can be."

"And heroin just gives you the end result with none of that horrible hard work?"

"Trust me, it's just better. Imagine feeling the most peaceful, most wonderful, most relaxed you've ever felt. Then throw in multiple orgasms. Then throw in being totally weightless, like you're walking on air."

"Yeah, then throw in getting addicted."

"That will not happen this time. I just want you to feel the good high, just once. You deserve it, especially after tonight. I was wrong, it was my fault."

I rolled my eyes. Why was he pushing this so hard? Why did he care that I got this supposedly amazing high? And why was I considering it?

"And who's to say it won't make me puke again?"

"Because for me, it worked the second time. I've talked to a lot of people who've said the same thing. The first time, your body's in shock. But the second time, it recognizes the drug and lets it do what it needs to."

I looked at him for a long time, skeptically, narrowing my eyes. "Why do you want me to so much?"

"I guess I want to say I'm sorry," he mumbled, taking a sip of Red Bull.

"Then say it, and mean it," I said.

"You deserve more than words."

"Yeah, I deserve action too," I said.

"It's too late for that tonight, I can't go back in time," he said, "I'm just giving you what I got now."

Needless to say, I gave in, if only because I thought it would relax me before bed and make me sleep like a rock again; my nerves were shot and I was still so pissed off I could hardly sit still. But Ian was right. This time I felt it. I was still a little nauseous if I moved around too much, so I sat there on the couch and just let it wash over me.

It felt cleansing, like all the pain and all the bad things that had ever happened in my life were being washed away, replaced with this beautiful feeling. I was no longer a mistake or a bad daughter; I was immortal and beautiful and powerful. And at the same time I was so vulnerable. It was warm, safe and intimate, like making love. My skin tingled where he touched me. It made me think that this was the way I should have always felt, that this was probably the way a baby feels in its mother's arms, like there is nothing wrong or nothing to think about or nothing to fear. Sweet and heavenly. This was the way life started out; for a few stoned seconds I got to be a baby again, only my mom was gone, but I didn't think about that, because the high was holding me now, making me weightless. It was better than anything I'd ever experienced.

I told Ian about how this must be the way a baby feels, before innocence or trust or any of that is lost to life, and he chuckled. "Never thought of it like that. I always just thought it was Heaven."

"Do you believe in Heaven?" I asked.

We were snuggling on the couch, our eyes closed. He gently stroked my hair and kissed my cheek.

"I don't know," he said.

"What about God?"

"Maybe," he said, then a few seconds later, "Yeah, I think so, actually. I believe in something. I just don't know if it's Jesus or Buddha or Allah or something else entirely, something that no one has even thought of yet. God's a mystery, but I know He's out there."

I opened my eyes and felt the weight of the drug trying to close them again, trying to take me down into that sweet sleep. "Sometimes, when I have those dreams, I think it's God talking to me. It's like I'm on the other side of prayer for once, like He's praying and I'm listening, instead of the other way around."

"So you're God now?" Ian laughed.

I smiled. "No. I just think I'd like to talk to Him if He's out there, ask him what the dreams mean, why He wants me to know about some stuff before it happens, and how do I figure them out?"

"So I guess you believe in God?" he asked.

"How can I not? If it's not Him, what the heck are these dreams? I mean, yeah, you can say they're from spirits or something, but where did the spirits come from? They didn't evolve, like we did. . . someone had to make them. . . You know, souls and stuff, they couldn't have just evolved. Someone had to make those souls."

"Mm."

Ian closed his eyes and didn't answer. It was only a few minutes later that I realized he'd fallen asleep. I think I drifted off too, only on heroin it was hard to tell. You'd be looking at a wall, and at the same time having a dream about it, totally conscious, yet sleeping at the same time.

I must have fallen off at some point though, and dreamed, because all of a sudden I was looking at my mother back at the apartment, back in my bedroom. She had my purity ring in her hands, cupped like a snowflake, and she was sobbing. She looked so lonely, like a ghost. I walked in and touched her hair, she didn't feel me. I put my arm around her shoulder, she didn't respond. I tried to pick up the ring, but my hand closed around air. That's when I realized I was the ghost, not her. I tried to say her name, but no words came out. I tried to tell her I loved her, but I had no breath. I wasn't there. I wasn't anywhere. Her sadness seemed inside of me.

The door of the bedroom opened, and a hooded shadow walked in. It wasn't the same shadow from the other night. I could feel its coldness; sorrow emanated from it, oozed from it, and the dark filled the room like ink. It was death. I tried to hold onto my mother's arm, but the shadow touched me, and I felt my grip slipping, until I was grasping air. I had to leave; I had no choice. I tried to scream that I had no choice, but my mother didn't hear me. Her words from earlier echoed in my ears: "I see you've made your choice."

"Bri?"

"Mm?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I mumbled.

Ian was holding me. My brain felt fuzzy, and my fingers barely moved; it was hard to open my eyes.

"Wake up."

"How long was I sleeping?"

"Ten minutes or so."

I opened my eyes. I was on the couch again, in Ian's arms. My face was wet with tears, and I gently reached up and touched them.

"Why are you crying?" he asked.

"I had a weird dream."

"From God?"

"I don't know," I said softly, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Was I in it?"

"No."

"Tell me about it."

"I don't wanna talk about it!" I snapped.

He stood up. I thought we were heading to bed, finally, but Ian walked over to the stereo and turned on some music. It was different, unlike anything I'd ever heard, and after a few minutes of listening to it, I forgot my dream.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"I took a film class in the hospital. I learned about Bollywood. You know what that is?"

I shook my head, letting the room catch up with my eyes.

"It's the East Indian Hollywood. They make these, like, epic musicals. And the music is so amazing. Wanna dance?"

I smiled and stood up, glad to note that the nausea was finally gone. I didn't think anymore about God and my dreams, because for some reason, talking about that had made me uncomfortable; my dreams made me lonely, and hearing from God just made me feel worse, wondering what He would really say to me, if it was just me and Him, no dreams to interpret; I imagined He would talk a lot about my mother, and how much I’d hurt her and Shelli. The music was slow and exotic and beautiful. . . like the drug still swirling in my bloodstream. It made me think of spices and sun and ocean water, my mind as far away as it could get from the dark bedroom where my mother sobbed.

Ian held out his hand, and I walked forward. We held each other, swaying in the tiny living room, imagining we were somewhere else, maybe India, with the sun and the spices and the Taj Mahal, anywhere but here. Heroin did that. It took you away from where you were, made anywhere paradise.

"We should go to India someday," I said softly.

"Yeah," Ian whispered.

He put his hands on my hips. We spent another hour there in the living room listening to the music. I belly danced for him in my underwear, which made him smile. He told me we should write a movie script, our own musical, Bollywood style; I asked him what it should be about, he said he'd think about it. I asked him why he liked movies so much; he said it was because he liked the thought of being in another world, even if it was only for two hours.

"You should be an actor like your dad," I said, then felt bad for saying it, but he just smiled.

"My mom wanted me to, when I was little. She made me go to all these coaching schools and stuff. . . but she usually ended up just meeting a guy there and forgetting what we were supposed to be doing. Besides, I hated it. It was all about forcing yourself to forget yourself, and I just don't think that's right."

"I wish I could forget myself," I said, belly dancing closer to him.

"Why?"

"Don't you ever wish you were someone else?" I asked.

"I wish I was different, sometimes. And I certainly wish life was different. But no, I guess not. I guess I realize that I could be whoever I'd rather be, if I just worked hard enough, and that way I could still be me too."

"I guess," I said, dancing so close that he reached out and put a hand on either hip, forcing me to stay still. His hands were warm and rough.

"Bri?" he said, looking up at my face.

"Hm?"

"I love you so much."

"I love you too."

He stood up and wrapped me in his arms. He was so warm; I felt my goosebumps dissolve as I leaned into him.

"I wasn't trying to make you take it," he murmured into my ear over the sound of the Hindi singing.

"I know."

"I just wanted to give you something beautiful. You deserve to feel something so beautiful."

I smiled and leaned into his chest, "I already do."

-

Going to bed at four a.m. plus waking up at seven a.m. for class equals bad idea. I could barely pull myself out of bed the next day. Ian didn't even wake up, apart from a mumble as he turned his head away from me and his arm slipped off my waist. I kissed him on the cheek and told him I was leaving; he didn't respond.

I didn't shower, just threw on some clothes in the dark. I didn't want to go, but I remembered what my mother had said to me, and besides, being stuck here in the apartment all day while Ian disappeared for hours on end did not sound like my idea of a good time. I was bored, broke, and lonely. School was the only thing I had.

I didn't know which bus to take or even if there was a route around here, so I walked the four and a half blocks to the high school, hands shoved into my jacket pockets. My mind still felt foggy. I knew the high had faded, but something still lingered around the edges of my vision, like cobwebs in high corners. I was just so tired and couldn't wake up. At the last corner before the school there was a 7-11, and I went inside and grabbed a coffee; I knew I couldn't bring it into the school, so I drank it in a few big swallows on the front steps, grimacing at the sour taste.

It helped a little bit, but apparently I still looked awful, because Mr. Ollie raised an eyebrow when I walked into class. "Wow, bad night, Briana?"

"You could say that," I mumbled, sitting down in my usual chair.

Landon was looking at me, not glaring, for once, so I chanced a look back. His eyebrows were furled with something that looked like either curiosity or worry. Okay, so we'd made it through a whole look without either of us glaring at the other or shooting the middle finger. Quite an accomplishment. So I chanced the next step: a smile. Landon half-smiled back, then quickly looked down at his book.

"Rough night?" a voice said, and suddenly Lola was standing in between me and Landon, and I couldn't see him anymore.

"Yeah," I said softly as she sat down beside me.

She looked perfect as always, with her glitter makeup and her white-blond-pink hair pulled up into two pigtails. She wore a fringey leather jacket and ripped jeans.

"Did you feel it this time?" she asked.

I looked up. "How do you know-"

"Ian told me," she said simply. "He was just worried about you, said you get really sick."

"I did."

"And this time?"

"Yeah, I think I felt it," I said.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What was it like?"

"Like dying," I replied, looking down at my literature anthology. Hamlet. How fitting.

Lola waited for me to say more, but there wasn't really anything else to say. I felt angry with Ian that he had told her; it was none of her business. And besides, it wasn’t something I was proud of and wanted to share with the whole world, which was what usually happened after you told Lola something. A few minutes later the bell rang overhead, and we both looked up at the front of the room; I was glad for an excuse not to talk to her anymore.

"To be or not to be. . ." Mr. Ollie started as the class quieted down, papers shuffling and voices whispering. "Someone explain to me what those words mean?"

Landon's hand predictably went up.

"Landon?" Mr. Ollie said, pointing at him.

"He's saying, should I live or should I not live?"

Mr. Ollie nodded. "Is it better, nobler, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, meaning the crap that life throws at you, or to die instead? To sleep? That's Hamlet's question. And that's what we're going to find out."

I tried to focus on my book. The coffee was finally starting to kick in, but I was still feeling groggy. The words shook like loose buttons on the page. I rubbed my eyes and put my head down, just for a few minutes, I thought, but I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up at the end of class, after everyone else had left.

"Briana?" Mr. Ollie said, tapping my shoulder.

"Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said, sitting up, my head thick.

"You feeling okay? I noticed you weren't here yesterday. If you're sick-"

"I'm not sick," I said, standing up and gathering my books together.

"Is something going on?" he asked.

I shook my head. "See you tomorrow. Sorry I fell asleep."

I left before he could say anything else. It was nobody’s business.

A/N: Thanks To: VandyGurl, MarloCarlo10, Alivta Wright, Faith Adeline, rainstains tarte, ClariceBA, Emerald123, AOK

queetinator: Yeah, Landon and Shelli will definitely be in the rest of the story. And Landon's actually going to play a pretty big part.
Mellz Bellz: Thanks! I completely agree with you and will definitely change a lot of things at the revision point.
Lovedward48: You make a very good point. Ian seems distant partly because I am trying to write him that way, cold and lonely and mysterious and kinda weird lol. But I am also going to work on rounding out his character more in coming chapters. He has lots of secrets he is keeping from Briana, and those will all come out. He is not nearly as in control as he acts (or thinks he is), and that is all going to come out too.