Notes: Ah… Coming up on the ending, yupyup. Apologies to Medusa, who didn't like Hailey much. ^_~ Well… here you go.

Last title was from Everclear's "Like A California King". This time it's from Everclear's "Heroin Girl" (which is incidentally where the catchphrase for the entire story comes from as well…) And I know you're thinking you know where this story is going.

Nope. ^__^ I don't think so!

Just Another Overdose

For the first time, I'm not sure how to tell the story. There's something about recovery that's not as interesting, not as heart-wrenchingly difficult, as the addiction itself. I can't even bring myself to think about it because, honestly, I can't remember all of it. Everything went by quickly, too quickly.

"Sit down," this strange girl named Hailey had said to me. "Sit down. Relax. I'm crazy, not violent." She'd smiled to show she was kidding, but her smile made her seem even more feral and predatory. Still, I obeyed the command.

And, thank god, she didn't said anything else to me until nearly fifteen minutes later when the nurse had come to retrieve me.

"Good luck," she'd called, tossing me another smile.

It made me shiver.

And, like all long stories made short, the news was both good and bad. Pietro could recover- would recover- with a certain amount of work. I listened, stunned, as the doctor outlined a plan for rehabilitation. Counseling, support groups, telephone numbers, national associations for help with drug abuse and, most importantly, a drug called methadone.

Most of all, it baffled me how you could treat a drug addiction with another drug. The doctor explained that methadone was an opiate, the same way that heroin was. But methadone didn't provide the same high. Instead, it would regulate the parts of the body most susceptible to the withdrawal symptoms of heroin abuse. It would allow to Pietro to discard heroin gracefully and relatively painlessly.

Yes, methadone was habit forming. It was addictive. But the tolerance levels were slow to build, and in that respect it was relatively safe. The normal process for patients on methadone was to decrease the dosage on a regular basis until eventually they were free of it as well.

He said that this process could sometimes take years. And, on average, it was only successful about half of the time. But it was the only option we had.

Oh, and one other complication: Pietro's mutant gene. Something I actually hadn't considered was how his faster metabolism would absorb the drug. And absorb it did. Apparently, he had to ingest three times the amount of heroin than the average junkie just to obtain the same high. Which meant that he had become addicted more quickly, which meant that his tolerance levels were through the roof. Which mean that his withdrawal symptoms had been about three times worse than the average.

Which meant that the amount of methadone he'd have to take would have to be adjusted carefully. The doctor informed me of all this with a sad and slightly uncomfortable look in his eyes. Pietro had sprawled, boneless, on my lap. They'd already given him some of this strange "wonder drug" and the effect was astonishing. He was calm to the point of falling asleep. His tremors had stopped. His skin was smooth and free of goosebumps.

But the methadone would have to be regulated very, very carefully. "Swallowing a few mouthfuls of this stuff could kill the average adolescent." The doctor said, glancing from me to Pietro warily. "Obviously, he's not your average adolescent. Still, I want to be extra cautious with this."

We left the clinic with a bottle of methadone and an appointment with a counselor the next week. As we'd passed through the waiting room, I'd searched frantically for any sign of that girl, Hailey. More than anything, I didn't want to run into her, not with my arms around Pietro's shoulders, not with his head buried in my chest. The looks of pity and bemusement the receptionists gave us made me uncomfortable enough.

However, she wasn't anywhere to be seen. She must have been called in for her appointment. We left without incident.

Hailey. Hail-ey. I'm still not sure why, but I disliked her from the very beginning. It was that silly, strange, completely unwarranted dislike that sometimes strikes us when we meet new people. She just… rubbed me the wrong way. Her attempts at being friendly- comforting Pietro, reassuring me- made me want even more to push her away.

All this after only 15 minutes of sitting in the same room with her. Some people… some people are perfectly nice people. They just give you a feeling of… well, wrongness. Sort of a tingly, prickling feeling of fear or anger. That was exactly my experience with her… and my feelings never changed.

Pietro, however, adored her. She usually had her appointments on the same day he had his checkups and meetings with the counselors. They'd talk and gossip and exchange information for the brief period before one or the other got called into the doctor's office. He said that she was great, really funny and friendly. He told me I should make more of an attempt to get to know her, awesome person that she was.

I never flat-out refused him. But she really did make me uncomfortable. I think I said something about him having his own friendships and being able to share certain stuff with people other than me. Something really stupid like that.

But he never pressured me into liking her. They'd talk about different treatments, what different people had said to them, each of them recounting their different experiences with the drug. And I'd sit a couple of chairs away and pretend to read a magazine.

She was good for him, she really was. I'm not sure he would have gotten to the point he did without having that comrade, that companion in pain. Still, sometimes she'd say something that would make me frown inwardly, that would make me want to intrude on the conversation so I could give my own opinion.

Once, out of the blue, she asked Pietro, "Are you gay?" No provocation. I think they'd been talking about some tv show they'd both watched the night before. "Are you gay?"

Pietro inhaled sharply and I immediately looked up from my magazine. She observed our reactions thoughtfully and then turned to me. "Are you gay?"

I couldn't say anything, but Pietro managed a weak response. "Why… are you asking?" He had whispered.

She shrugged. "Hey, maybe I read it wrong. No big deal. Just curious."

"It's none of your damn business," I'd growled, not even brave enough to look this girl in the eye. Pietro coughed and looked away also, clearly embarrassed.

She shrugged again. "Ok." And they'd gone back to talking about the latest "Buffy" episode.

For the most part, I just tried not to think about her. Her presence was like an itch in my brain that, if I could just forget about it, would go away. Instead, I tried to focus on school, or the household… or how incredibly better Pietro was getting.

The doctors told me once or twice that they'd never seen progression quite like Pietro's; the effects of his addiction had gone from awful to nearly normal in a matter of weeks. But they needn't have said anything for me to catch on to this point.

After all, we lived in the same house. We shared the same bed, now. The day after they had prescribed the methadone, I stayed home from school with him. It was a Monday. By the evening, he was crawling the walls with boredom. Tuesday, he went to school. He had a short period at lunch where he felt dizzy… thought he was going to throw up. But he didn't.

I don't know whether it was his fast metabolism that caused him to heal so quickly… or whether it was something else. Some people talk about the 'healing power of love', but I've always regarded that as new-age altruistic bullshit.

Love.

Love.

I loved you, Pietro. Poor baby. I can't imagine what it's like where you are now. Is it dark? Is it cold? Does it smell like dirt, death, and decay? Have the worms gnawed through your eyeballs yet?

What an awful image.

The thing is that everything went wrong so quickly… I don't think I was ever able to get a concrete grasp on what happened. My life has been like… like grappling with a wet bar of soap ever since. You keep trying and trying to hold on… but reality just keeps slipping away from you.

I can still touch it, taste it, smell it. I just can't hold on to it.

You had an appointment, just like any other Sunday in the bright and bleary midmorning. The rest of the house was beginning to feel a little confused, suspicious about where we were always heading off to on those prescribed days of the week. But it didn't matter. No, nothing mattered.

Because you were happy. You were finally happy. Your eyes sparkled, your hair shone, and you were so fucking beautiful. So happy, so energetic that I caught the bug. It had been nearly a month and here we were. We swam the river, we ran the race, and the Owl Creek Bridge had been left behind.

For the rest of your life.

The clinic looked exactly the same. The waiting room looked exactly the same. Nothing felt out of place, except…

Hailey was missing. It was puzzling… she was always there on Sundays, as that was her review of the methadone dosage. But she was nowhere to be found.

With an air of puzzlement and casual friendliness, Pietro asked the receptionist on duty if Hailey had been in to see her doctor yet. "Ma'am? Have you seen Hailey recently?"

"Who?" The woman looked a little hassled and tired.

"Um… Hailey. I don't know her last name. Short girl, blond, kinda… scruffy looking?" Pietro gave me an odd look, somewhere between worry and good humor. "Have you seen her? She's usually in here around this time on Sundays."

The woman's face tensed with recognition. "Are… are you a friend of hers?"

Pietro nodded. "Yeah, kinda. We talk sometimes." He shot me another look. "Is everything ok?"

The woman sighed as her face became a mask of pity. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Miss Steinham- Hailey- was brought in last night suffering from a heroin overdose. Apparently, in a moment of distress she injected a fatal amount.

She… she didn't last an hour. I'm very sorry, dear.

She's dead."

The change in Pietro was apparent as soon as the woman uttered the words 'heroin overdose'. I watched, horrified, as every drop of life dropped from his features. His eyes looked blank, dead. His face went completely slack and his skin paled considerably. Still, he found a response for the woman. "I… I… I just… thank you." He mumbled, pushing away from the check-in counter and heading toward the exit.

I followed him, calling his name the entire time. "Pietro, wait! Wait! Come here… please? I'm sorry Pietro, I'm so sorry!" He stopped once he'd gotten clear of the door; I pulled him into a tight embrace.

He did not hug me back.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to him. "I know she was your friend; I'm so sorry this had to happen-"

"She's dead." His voice shook. "She's dead; she's never coming back."

"Yes…" I replied hesitantly. "Yes, I know… and I'm so sorry."

He was silent for a moment and then, abruptly, he pushed me away. I tripped over the low porch step and fell onto my back.

He screamed. Loud and short, he screamed. Then the scream became a wail, and the wail became a string of words.

"She killed herself! She lied, she said she was completely off of it, she wasn't! She killed herself, it's not fucking fair! I hate her, I hate everything! I hate this- this life!" he began to back away from me, still talking. "No, no, NO! I can't do this anymore, Lance!" He trailed off and stared at me. His eyes were still shining, but in a different way. "Why wasn't it me, Lance? Huh? Why did she die? Why are we still alive?

I don't understand anymore!" His voice rose to a scream again and he covered his eyes.

"Pietro-" I began, but he cut me off almost immediately.

"I can't, Lance! I can't.!" He moved his hands and began to back unsteadily away from me. "I have to be alone, Lance. I have to run." He edged farther toward the street. "Stay away from me, please?

I… I don't want to hurt you!"

And, in a swift gust of wind, he was gone.

From Karl Shapiro's poem Auto Wreck

Our throats were tight as tourniquets,
Our feet were bound with splints, but now,
Like convalescents intimate and gauche,
We speak through sickly smiles and warn
With the stubborn saw of common sense,
The grim joke and the banal resolution.
The traffic moves around with care,
But we remain, touching a wound
That opens to our richest horror.
Already old, the question, Who shall die?
Becomes unspoken, Who is innocent?
For death in war is done by hands;
Suicide has cause and stillbirth, logic;
And cancer, simple as a flower, blooms.
But this invites the occult mind,
Cancels our physics with a sneer,
And spatters all we knew of dénouement
Across the expedient and wicked stones.