I was in a crack house when the outbreak started-high as a winter kite in Norway. Five lines had me on the floor soaring through paths of candy and dancing with monsters. I almost thought I was hallucinating when the real monsters broke in and stole my key to drug-induced paradise. Almost everyone in the house was bitten in a few short minutes and the only reason I got out is because a man tripped trying to run, giving me time to escape when a biter stopped to feed on him. His name was Chris.
To this day I wonder what would have happened had I been in class where I was supposed to be instead of huffing snowflakes to forget about the kids I was supposed to be helping. I'm a music therapist—or at least was going to be one. You know how it goes. I was a college student cramming study into my tired brain and working nights to pay the hangman when a Good Samaritan offered a hand and brought me up a tier—a step closer to immortality and all my anxiety vanished down my throat in a small caplet. One turned into two, and two turned into something stronger, something better. Shame numbed into I-don't-cares and one more one more one more shot before returning to the lives I promised to help and abandoned. All my life I've made the wrong choices but this one kept me alive, I think. So, was it a bad one? Or were drugs my saving grace?
