I know, I know. It's too soon to post anything drug-related, especially when it's the drug that was used, but tonight I was randomly looking through my notes from last year and I came across this. I can't believe I wrote this and really don't remember ever writing it due to having done a cocktail of this and other drugs as well during the time I had written it. I am very glad to say that I no longer do it. I've had situations dealing with heroin and a person I love and it's just truly very tragic to see what happens to a person, especially an addict. Especially someone who you love and deeply care about. And I'm sorry if this offends anyone that I put this up. It's very short and not at all graphic in its drug content.

I hope Cory Monteith is in a better place, if there is one. I hope in his last few days, that he had found some happiness. I know that it's stupid to mention, but I hear ODing is a heavenly way to go. All you feel is how good and clear everything is. Stupid, I know, but may he rest in peace. My heart goes out to the people he's touched in his life.

I can't..

Tears drop from your face to the carpet as you shake your head.

I can't do this anymore.

You're staring at the floor because you can't look at her when you're saying this, when she's like that. She's nodding out on the couch in front of you, the cigarette between her fingers burnt to the butt, her half-lidded eyes barely focused on you.

Britt..

She whimpers your name. She's using everything she's got in her to talk, to get ahold of your eyes, but you won't let her.

I'll stop. I promise. Britt, honey, please. Please look at me.

She sits up straighter when you raise your head. Her face is thinner than you remember and the lump in your throat doubles in size.

I've said that.. a bunch, I know..

Her voice is raspy, and you curse yourself for loving it that way. You can tell she hasn't left that couch in hours when she struggles to pick herself up. She drags her feet to where you are and wraps her fingers around the arm you've got across your chest. You shiver and she notices. You let go of your grip on your right bicep to let her hand drop from your arm. A look on her makes it seem like you've slapped her, but that face doesn't quite seem to work on you anymore.

I've tried, Santana.

You're a lot calmer than the previous times you've had this conversation with her, but the tears somehow still find their way onto the carpet.

I've tried so hard to get you clean, to get you healthy, to make you happy but-

She grabs ahold of you then, her frail fingers try their hardest to wrap around your arms. She slightly crouches down to try to get you to look into her eyes.

You make me happy, Brittany, you do, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, so, so sorry.

She falls to her knees and hugs your legs as best as she can. She's still apologizing, her wet cheek pressed against your thigh.

You can't seem to feel anything anymore. Not even for her.