I think it was the night of your birthday that we went out. There was a party at someone's house right by the ocean. Their parents must have been filthy rich because the place was huge.
As soon as we stepped inside people pushed their way forward to say hi. They were mostly your friends, but I knew some of them too. We had smoked so much hash before we left and the high was making me comfortable in the crowds.
Some one handed me a joint saying something about it being laced with angel dust, watching as I took a toke. You took it from my hand and inhaled, turning to blow the churning smoke into my face. I smiled, loving the feeling of your breath enveloping me.
The next thing I remember is the two of us walking together down to the beach. You were holding my fingers with your hands and swinging them back and forth. We sat together on the large rocks talking, listening to the crashing waves, and watching the distant lights play on the black water.
I truthfully don't know how it happened. I can't seem to organize the evens logically in my mind. It started so insignificantly: you were scratching your knuckles on the rough rock, quoting Ginsberg: "Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection..." Then suddenly you were pounding your fist into it with all your strength. Every word you spoke punctuated the dull sound of your hand hitting stone: "...to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night."
I did nothing for so much time. I was thinking over and over how wrong it was. You were not supposed to be the one freaking out. You were the stable one, the one who took care of me when I couldn't cope.
I grabbed your hand away from the rock. You are stronger then me so you must have let me. I couldn't see much in the dim light, but I could feel the wet blood coating your skin. I covered your hand with mine, staring into your face. I wasn't sure what to do.
Tears started trickling down you cheeks even though your expression was calm. Then you were sobbing, trying to whisper to me, "I can't feel anything. I can't feel. I'm dead."
It was the first time I had seen you crying, the first time I had seen you so upset. I hugged you. I tried my best to comfort you, telling you that you could feel, that you weren't dead.
Once you stopped crying we went to your house. We got into bed without speaking. I guess we both had nothing to say. I held you while you feel asleep. There was no music; you hadn't turned any on for once. I missed it. I found that I had become like you: I couldn't fall asleep to silence either. Instead I lay awake staring at you. My thoughts kept returning to your agonized expression and choked voice telling me you were dead.
When I woke up the next morning you weren't there. I was immediately nervous. I didn't feel comfortable in your house without you. I slowly went upstairs hoping your parents weren't there.
I found you in the bathroom trying to put gauze on your hand. You must have seen my movement in the mirror because you looked up as soon as I was near.
"Looks like a bad trip to me." You said, holding up your hand.
"You don't remember?" I asked. You could move your hand so I assumed nothing was broken. I took the gauze from you and taped it in place.
"Only a little. Enough to scare me away from angel dust for a while."
I didn't ask what it was you remembered. I didn't want to talk about it then. "Yeah. Me too." I told you.
You smiled and gave me a quick kiss. Then you taught me how to make pancakes your way: using strange combinations of ingredients instead of the usual blueberries or chocolate chips. We laughed our heads off watching each other make pained faced while eating the pancakes.
I suppose something should have changed between us, but it didn't. As soon as you smiled at me I knew everything was ok. Everything was back to normal. The night before was like a nightmare I could just try my best to forget.
There were only a few more weeks left of school and then we got out for Christmas holidays. After spending it with you I realised it was first time I had ever liked Christmas. You had a big fire in your house, and late at night you would light it. We'd put down the big fluffy duvet from your bed and lie down on it. I always lay with my back to your chest, your arms around me so that we both could watch the flames.
We decided that once we graduated we would move in together. It was only a few months away, and we both resolved to try harder so we wouldn't have to do another year of high school. We talked all the time about our apartment: how we'd paint our room dark blue and hang beads from the ceiling, how we'd have a room with cushions where we would smoke pot.
Time passed quickly. I'm not sure if it's because of the drugs or because I've been so happy. It was the first day of spring yesterday. We spent it in a field having a picnic and watching the clouds drift in the sky.
And tomorrow I'll go over to your house and ring the doorbell. You'll answer the door, your hair all over the place because you just woke up, and I'll hand you these pages. We'll go downstairs to your room and light up a bowl. You'll read what I've written and your understanding will makes these words seem so much deeper. Maybe you will tell me what you remember, make me see what you were feeling.
These are my memories, they might not be all a hundred percent true, but just remembering them has reminded me why I fell in love with you in the first place, why I still love you so much now.
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