The summer heat blankets the room; lazily shinning in through the curtains.

There's a boy, and a girl.

They sit side by side on a small couch, engulfed by the punk song that's blasting through the room.

"We have about a half hour." the boys says, checking his phone again just to make sure. "You're gonna like this stuff - it's pretty dank. My brother said it's Afghan Kush."

Her lips pull back into an excited grin, anticipating the taste of the milky white smoke.

She excuses herself briefly to go the bathroom. The only reason she enters is to make sure that she looks okay, her hair isn't messy, her makeup isn't smudged. She doesn't understand what this boy sees in her. But whatever it is, she plans to hold onto it.

When she re-enters the bedroom, she stops quizzically in the door frame. The loud, obnoxious song has ceased. The very atmosphere has changed.

The boy has gotten off of the couch, and now lays spread out on her bed. His arms are behind his head, and he smirks at her like the little kid he feels at heart.

Marvin Gaye's 'Let's Get It On' begins to play from her sound system. The boy's expression widens as the opening notes are belted out.

She laughs, taken completely by surprise by this turn of events. His eyes shine as she makes her way inside the smile refuses to leave her lips, and she joins him on the bed.

Lola's eyes slowly open, and she let's out a groan as her senses return to her.

There is an empty space beside her in the bed.

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before she pulls herself up and begins to walk through the house, looking for Tim.

He is on the couch downstairs, eyes closed. His old guitar - the only thing he takes pride in owning, is on the floor in front of the coffee table.

There is an empty bag on the carpet. An empty bag. Upon seeing this, Lola begins to panic. He shot up the entire thing.

Tim's arms are stiff, locked and folded on his chest.

She tries to shake him awake. That doesn't conjure any sort of reaction. The blood in his veins needs to be circulating, otherwise he could die.

She tries to help him off of the couch and forces him to walk around. But his entire body is unresponsive, a dead weight. He stays rigid.

Lola tries everything she can think of to get him to move. She smacks him in the face and runs cold water over his head from the bathtub.

But he remains.

Tears rapidly form in her eyes. There is no other choice but to call an ambulance, even though they don't come out to this part of the town for social calls. There are only there for solely clean-up, removal. Tim is either going to jail or the hospital.

The paramedics show up in a blurry rush of commotion.

"I just came home...and found him like this." Lola lies in a broken voice. Her body is trembling over every word.

The male counter part asks her if she has any idea what happened.

Before she is able to spoon feed them anything else, the female paramedic chimes in.

"I think we found the culprit." she is standing over the dining room table, holding up a syringe. It was one of the syringes that Tim had swiped from the hospital the other day when he walked in for chest pains. He frequently goes to all of the hospitals in the area, complaining of phantom diagnosis's, with any hopes of being prescribed pain killers. Junkies can never get enough syringes. They get dull after about five uses, but the ones that Tim had stolen were made for elephants, or something similar of the sort. They usually get 30-gauge, Icc insulin needles, which have a fine point that makes it virtually painless to inject. These ones that Tim procured have to be at least 8-gauge. Even a brand new one feeling like stabbing yourself with a knife.

The woman paramedic asks Lola is she has any idea as to what kind of drug he was using.

She shakes her head, trying to play dumb.

They hook up oxygen bags to him in the living room and attempt to put a pulse back in his system. It fails to work, and Lola feels like she is going to puke all over the place.

As they rush Tim to the emergency room, it feels like she's standing above herself, watching everyone scurry around like ants beneath her.

As the doctor eventually emerges from the operating room and tells Lola that there's nothing he can do, she becomes lost somewhere in her head - locked away with her torturing thoughts.

She remembers crying, screaming, trying to start a fight with one of the nurses. She remembers someone restraining her, holding her back, trying calm her down.

Days pass by in a blurs of grey. She walks down the school's hallways like a zombie, and stares out of the window during all of her classes. The rain outside is easy to loose herself in.

There is a constant pain that she feels, like an ache - it pumps as heavy as the blood in her veins. She walks around her neighborhood a lot by herself, hoping in the back of her mind that she'll stumble too far into the road and get hit by a car. There's a certain comfort she would feel in having her brains sprayed all over the concrete.

She sits outside now, in a plastic folding chair. About one hundred other people are sitting around her, but she doesn't look at any of their faces. Her eyes are swollen and lowered.

The rain crashes down like a hailstorm of bullets, ripping apart her flesh and the earth below. It's been raining for five days straight.

A priest in ceremonial garbs stands in front of the casket, a bible is open in his hands and he is reading out verses of the Lord to the crowd. Lola tries to listen, she tries to hear the hope laced through out His words but she can't. Everything sounds like it's under water and she's unable to focus.