"Roger!" I scream and knock on his door loudly. Mark gives me an odd look from where he sits on the couch but I don't care. There is only one thing on my mind right now and I'm not going to shut up until I get it.

            I call out his name again and bang on the door loudly, desperate to get in there, to him, to my drug. I can feel it starting again. Everything, the cramps, the sickness…everything's starting to spin around in my mind. The only thing I'm aware of is my need for more heroin.

            Suddenly I feel a crippling pain in my stomach and I collapse on the ground in front of Roger's door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm aware of Mark rushing over to me, of him calling my name, asking questions, but the only thing I can focus on is the pain. Oh God, and now it's spreading to my legs as well, paralyzing them along with the rest of my body.

            I put all my strength into trying to form words, thoughts, sentences. I finally manage to force out "Get Roger," and Mark starts banging on the locked door, again calling out to the man behind the thin wall.

            Finally, after what seems like an eternity of waiting and suffering, Roger opens the door and although the sweat on my forehead is dripping down to my eyes, making it almost impossible to see anything, I can tell from the expression on his face and the blank look in his eyes that he's high again. Oh God, please don't have used it all up…please oh please…

            He stares at me for a while, looking at me doubled over in pain, clutching my stomach, shaking, and dripping with sweat. Finally a look of realization washes across his otherwise expressionless face and he grabs me by my arms, helping my up.

            "Roger!" Mark exclaims. "We have to take her to the hospital!"

            Oh God no…please, no, oh God, don't take me to the hospital…

            I'm aware of the two men talking back and forth, yelling, screaming in excitement and worry. Though I can't make out the words or which person is saying what.

            Finally, Roger lifts me up and carries me into his room with him, despite Mark's yelling and protesting and threats to call an ambulance. I'm not aware of much, but I can feel Roger lift my arm and a few seconds later something piercing through the flesh. And then, as suddenly as it all began, it stops, and I can feel my body beginning to calm down.

            My hands stop shaking, my stomach and legs un-cramp and I can move them again, and the feeling like I'm about to throw up everything inside of me vanishes from my quickly calming stomach.

            We're both quiet for a second, neither of us saying a word as we take in what just happened. Withdrawal.

            Finally Roger glances at the door, where we can still hear Mark yelling on the other side, and he says, "I guess we should make sure he doesn't call that ambulance."

            I nod slowly, my head still aching a little from the dreadful withdrawal symptoms I had experienced minutes before.

            Roger opens the door after hiding his needle and stash, and Mark rushes in and gets down on the floor next to me.

            "April, what happened? Are you okay?"

I nod, wracking my mind for an excuse but can think of none.

            Finally, Roger butts in and says, "She has the flu."

Mark raises an eyebrow questioningly. "The flu? Roger, that didn't look like the flu."

            Roger shrugs and I just sit there, relishing in the fact that I can now feel all limbs of my body.

            "April!"

I look up, suddenly aware of the fact that my name is being called and see Mark staring down at me anxiously.

            "April, are you sure you're okay? That doesn't look like the flu…"

            I nod again. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'll go to the doctor though, alright?"

            He nods, looking satisfied. "Good. Thank you."

Roger looks at me anxiously and I try to give him a look, trying to reassure him that I have no plans on going to the doctor, but he doesn't seem to get it.

            When Mark is finally gone from the room and I'm alone with just Roger and my smack again, Roger says, "You're not really going to go, right?"

            I shake my head. "No, of course not."

            "Good."  He breathes a sigh of relief and sits on the hard wood floor next to me. "Are you okay now?"

I nod. "Yeah. That was scary." I shudder as I remember the feeling. Suddenly it clicks in my brain that Roger is the reason I didn't get the heroin in time. I smack him lightly. "Why the hell didn't you let me in?"

He looks at me apologetically. "I'm sorry…I was just, well I was kinda busy if you know what I mean," he says and points to a red needle prick on his arm, just above one of the many track marks that are now apparent.

            I sigh and lean in against his side. "Don't do that to me again, Baby"

            "I won't. I swear, I just didn't want Mark to see and I couldn't exactly stop right in the middle."

            I nod understandingly. "I know." I snuggle in closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist.

            "Mark's going out tonight," he says suddenly and smiles.

            I look up at him and can't help but smile myself when I see the grin on his face. I know that grin. He's planning something. "So?"

"So I was thinking we could see The Man again, and we'd have the loft all to ourselves…"

I smile brightly. We'd be here all alone with all the smack we need.

            Maureen moved out a few weeks ago. She and Mark constantly got in fights every other day and she said she just couldn't stand living here with him anymore. They're still going out, I think, but we rarely ever see her. I don't even think Mark really does. Maureen accused him of only paying attention to Roger and never spending any time with her anymore. She said he was all Mark could ever think about and that she was sick of it.

            And I have to admit, she has a point. Mark knows something's up, but how close to the truth he is, I don't know.  He thinks Roger drinks too much and knows he's dabbled with drugs. That much I know because I hear them argue about it constantly. What he doesn't know is that half the time he thinks Roger's drunk he's really stoned, or a combination of both.

            Which is one of the reasons that Benny moved out last week also. That, plus the fact that he has a new, rich girlfriend who invited him to live with her in her fancy apartment on the East Side. Muffy, I think her name is.

They started dating last month and they're already starting to plan for their wedding. Honestly, I don't know what Benny sees in her at all. Sometimes I think he's just marrying her for the money, because I know they're not really in love.

            A lot of times I see him hanging out at the Cat Scratch Club, a strip club not far from here, flirting with this cute Latino woman. I see them together often because The Man, my dealer, is known to hang around there a lot as well.

            Suddenly I feel a tug at my side and I realize that Roger is standing up and pulling on my arm, motioning for me to get up as well.

            "Where are we going?" I ask as I allow him to pull me to my feet.

            "We have to find The Man before Mark leaves."

            I nod and we walk out of the loft together, hand in hand, with the money that Mark loaned Roger "to get his guitar repaired", to find The Man.

            An hour later we walk back in the front door, our pockets filled with three grams of smack (all we could afford), giggling and stumbling over everything that gets in our way.

            Mark is sitting on the couch, reading the New York Times, and jumps when Roger trips over the coffee table, falling right on top of Mark.

            "Oops," he giggles and pushes himself back up.

            "Roger?" Mark raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "Are you okay?"

            Roger nods and laughs again. "Perfectly fine."

He starts to walk away but Mark grabs his arm and gives him a look. I know that look. I quickly walk towards Roger's bedroom, closing the door just as I hear the beginning of the all too familiar argument.

            After 15 minutes of listening to the screaming and the accusations being thrown back and forth, Roger comes storming in again, though he's definitely not in the light, happy state in which I last saw him.

            His hands are shaking again, I notice, as he reaches in his pocket and then fumbles with his lighter.

            "Need some help, Baby?" I ask, noticing that he seems to be having a bit of trouble with his hands shaking so hard.

            He shakes his head and eventually he gets the white powder down to a smooth liquid and injects it into his arm. After a few moments I can visibly see him relax, and he returns to the mood he was in before his fight with Mark.

            We have fun for a while, finding humor in what used to seem like the most ordinary things: the way the branches of the trees tap against the building, producing a hilarious "ticking" sound; the squeaking sound that the bed makes when you pounce on it in just the right way…everything is great and we have a blast just laughing and having fun.

            I try to think of the last time I was high enough to put me in this blissful state. It was in the beginning, almost a year ago, one of the first times I shot up. Recently, that amazing high is getting harder and harder to reach. A gram used to do it for me. Now, a gram is just enough to keep me from keeling over in pain, just enough to keep me normal and away from the awful withdrawal symptoms.

            I almost never experience the same buzz anymore that I used to in the beginning. And I miss it. But it takes so much smack to get me to that point that I usually never do it. There are rare circumstances, like tonight, that Roger and I decide to blow all our money and buy enough smack to put both of us in that state for quite a while. But those times are few and far between. Mostly because neither of us have the money.

            I sold my apartment for quite a bit of money but it was quickly used up in the span of time that Roger and I have been using. He still plays gigs and I work part time as a waitress, and it's enough to get by. Enough to keep us normal and out of withdrawal, but definitely not fun anymore, like it was in the beginning.

            Suddenly there's a knock on the door and it startles both me and Roger as I fall off his bed and onto the floor, still laughing my ass off. Roger laughs too as he jumps down and bounces over to the door, opening it for Mark.

            Mark gives us a questioning look and opens his mouth as if he's about to say something but he closes it again and then says, "I won't even ask. I don't even want to know what you guys are on right now." He clears his throat. "Yeah, um, I'm leaving now. Try not to get into too much trouble, okay?"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay Mommy," he says and laughs.

            Mark just sighs and closes the door, muttering something under his breath but I'm laughing too hard to make out or even care about what it is.

            Things continue on like this for the rest of the night. Me and Roger have a great time and eventually wear ourselves out and we fall asleep, exhausted, in each others arms.

Mark POV:

            "Do you want to come in?" I ask Maureen before opening the front door to the loft.

            She pauses. "No thanks. I need to get back, I have a performance tomorrow and I need to get up early."

I sigh and nod. "Okay." I lean in to give her a quick kiss on the lips but she ducks it, turning her head so I kiss her cheek instead.

            " 'Night Mark," she says and then takes off down the stairs before I even have the chance to respond.

            I sigh and put the rusty key in the lock and turn it, opening the door and walking in.

            I spot the door to Roger and April's room open and I go over to close it, but as I grab the doorknob, about to pull it closed, the light from the hallway catches Roger's figure, his arms wrapped securely around April, and I freeze, gaping at them.

            Roger's not wearing a shirt. And his arms…oh God…track marks? No…Roger wouldn't do that. He wouldn't…would he?

            I sneak in closer to get a better look and I pick up his arm lightly, inspecting it, and then take the other, searching it as well. It's the same as the other. Track marks all over. Jesus, he looks like a junkie…

            The realization that he probably is a junkie flashes through my mind and I have to fight the urge to be sick. I drop his arm quickly and pick up April's. It's the same as Roger's.

            Fuck… I walk out of the room quietly and close the door behind me, then go over to the couch and flop down, leaning my head against the back.

            I knew Roger was doing something. I've known for a long time. I thought he was drinking too much, partying too hard, and I knew he was probably doing some kind of drugs. But I never thought… God, heroin.

            Suddenly the image of April on the floor, shaking and clutching her stomach, comes back to me and my eyes fly open in realization. Of course it wasn't the flu…she was going through fucking withdrawal! And then she went in Roger's room and in a few minutes she was fine again…

            I get up quickly and go into Roger's room again with a flashlight, trying to be quiet as I dig through his drawers and the pockets of pants and other clothes he hasn't washed in weeks. In the drawer by his bed I find some needles, a spoon, and a lighter. But no smack. I frown and continue my search, looking under pillows, the mattress, behind pictures…anywhere I can think of. But I see no sign of drugs anywhere.

            It occurs to me that they might have used it all already and I frown again, hesitantly leaving the room and return to my spot on the couch.

            I try to think about where to go from here. Do I talk to them? Tell someone (Yeah right, who is there to tell?)? Keep them from leaving the loft? Finally I decide that the latter would be the best choice for now. I won't tell Roger that I know because I can only imagine the fights that would follow, the excuses and lies…

            No, no that definitely would not be a good idea. But what should I do?

            I sigh and lean my head back against the top of the couch again, deciding that the best thing to do for now would be to go to sleep and see what happens in the morning, since I'm obviously far too exhausted and confused to do anything about it tonight.

            I go into my room, making sure to set my alarm clock for early the next morning. I want to be up before Roger and April so I can be sure they don't leave the house to get more smack.

            After a while, I eventually fall asleep, pushing the thoughts about two of my best friends being junkies out of my mind for now. Tonight I'll rest, tonight I won't think about it at all, I'll allow myself one good night of sleep before all hell breaks loose.

And tomorrow…well, I don't want to even think about tomorrow. Because I know that come morning, I will have to face the fact that my two best friends are junkies. I will have to face everything I've been trying to deny for months, and I will have to face the reality that I could lose them both if something isn't done about it, and soon.