Colors whirl around me, blur together into one giant mass of gray. My head spins and I grasp for the wall blindly as I stumble down the hall, searching in the darkness for my apartment.

"Jesus Roger, not again," I hear a voice call out from the distance. But the voice is fuzzy, along with everything else, and I can't place who it belongs to. But, figuring that I no longer need to stumble around in the dark now that I've been found, I let myself collapse weakly on the thinly carpeted floor beneath me.

I hear the loud crash of my body as I fall and I sit as still as I can, trying to stop the swaying of the room. Funny. You'd think a fall like that would hurt me, but I hadn't felt a thing. I giggle, finding humor in the fact that I can no longer feel my arms or legs.

Suddenly someone grabs me under the arms and I can feel myself being half carried, half dragged down a hallway of darkness into a small room, which I later realize is my apartment. Though they are pretty much the same thing.

I feel something soft under me and a warm body next to my own, and I laugh at the realization that the reason for the darkness is because of my closed eyelids.

I open my eyes and am hit with the sensation of a million bright, vibrant colors, all of them blurry and melded together. It's like staring right at the sun. I gasp and then close my eyes quickly, trying to block out some of the incredible brightness.

My head is pounding and sweat is streaming down my forehead in rivers, drenching my trembling body. But when I open my eyes again I realize that it isn't sweat at all, but the jets of water from the shower Mark put me under.

I shiver a little in my damp clothes and lean against a side of the porcelain bathtub. The water feels good, it's drowning out some of the pounding in my head and steadying my incredibly heightened senses; it's pulling me out of my heroin-induced state.

I open my eyes again, feeling marginally better, to find Mark staring down at me in mixed concern and anger. More than anger really, he looks like he's about ready to strangle me.

"Roger, you swore you would stop!"

My only response is the quick gulp of air I take before shoving Mark out of the way and vomiting violently into the toilet in front of me.

"Jesus Christ," I hear my friend mutter over my loud, desperate gagging. When my stomach finally stops its heaving I pant heavily, trying to regulate my breathing, and slide down against the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

Oh God, does it feel nice against my sweaty, damp body. I don't care that it's the dirty bathroom floor of my grungy apartment, I'm not moving from this spot all night. I don't think I can move from this spot, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'm perfectly fine lying here covered in my own sweat and vomit until I'm able to move my limbs again and carry myself to my room.

Mark POV:

I walk back into the bathroom, carrying a tall glass of water, only to find Roger passed out on the floor.

I sigh heavily and grab a washcloth from the sink and dampen it before bringing it to Roger's face, wiping the sides of his mouth and his sweat-soaked forehead.

As I grab Roger by the chest and strain to carry his heavy body into his bedroom, I wonder vaguely what it was this time. Alcohol, pot, X, speed… With Roger, the possibilities are endless.

Night after night he comes home either completely stoned or so wasted that he can't even stand up on his own. I guess I should be used to it by now and accept that this is just the way Roger is. And that he isn't going to stop or change. If he's so determined to kill himself than I should just let him.

Why should I have to take care of him, go searching for him at all hours of the night, get no sleep of my own just to make sure he's all right and doesn't die from an overdose or alcohol poisoning?

Because you love him, a voice calls out from nowhere.

I sigh and bite my lip as I struggle to lift the man twice my size onto his bed. Once the task is done I look down at Roger – my beautiful, wonderful, perfect, impossible Roger – and close my eyes, trying to stop the feelings coursing through my body.

When I finally get my emotions under control I open my eyes again and notice that Roger is curled around the worn blanket he's had ever since he was a child, and is snoring peacefully. Maybe he's not passed out after all.

"You love him," I repeat softly, echoing the words resounding through my mind.

It's true, I think to myself as I lean down and hesitantly brush my lips against his. I'm in love with my best friend and roommate who is incapable of loving anything or anyone except the drugs he pours into his body… the drugs that control his life.

Roger POV:

I wake up the next morning feeling the worst I ever have in my entire life. I'm twisted around drenched bed sheets, the entire length of my body is covered in sweat, and I can't so much as move a limb without intense nausea washing through my stomach, making me want to spend the rest of my life bent over a toilet bowl… Except I can't move. The pain in my arms and legs is almost paralyzing, making my want to scream out in pain and anguish.

The events of the previous night are fuzzy, at best. I remember smoking those joints along with Adam and the band, I remember X. I remember Laura leaving early, claiming she felt sick, I remember April passing me the needle and I remember her going through the motions, showing me how to do it myself. The prick of the needle and the sudden rush of emotions and sensations were incredible and still vivid in my mind, despite how wasted I already was at the time.

But after that my mind goes blank. I think I remember walking home from the party at about 1:00 a.m. and how strange I thought it was to be seeing rainbows at that hour of the night.

The colors were so intense that they were almost blinding. They made me nauseous. I think I remember throwing up in an alley, and I remember sweat pouring over me like rain… Wait, maybe that was the shower. Was there a shower?

I remember the blue and red and yellow, green, and orange flashing in front my eyes before exploding, leaving me in total and complete darkness. I have never had such a scary experience before in my life. It was like being trapped in a giant black hole with no way out – no windows or doors…just the black – stumbling around, trying to find the colors again.

Tentatively I open my eyes and am relieved to see that the hues have returned to their normal shade. My head is still spinning and I still feel a little bit of a buzz, but for the most part I think the heroin has worn off.

That is, until I sit up in bed and a searing pain shoots through my upper body and legs. I clench my teeth to keep from screaming, and grip my damp blanket so tightly that my knuckles turn almost as white as the sheets on my bed. I am never doing heroin again.

I think I hear a light tapping on my door as I lie in bed, feeling like I'm about to die. But maybe I'm just hearing things again.

But no, I'm not hearing things because a second later Mark appears in my doorway, looking absolutely livid.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out before he has the chance to say anything. I'm really not in the mood for another one of his lectures about the evils of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes he reminds me of my mother.

But Mark doesn't say anything this time. He just stares at me, unflinchingly, and I can almost read his eyes as if they're saying, "No more lectures. I've had it, that's it. Go take your drugs and booze somewhere else, because I don't want you here anymore."

But if that's what he's thinking, he keeps it to himself. Instead he just stands there in that one spot, glaring me down, until I finally look away from his intense gaze and he sighs.

"Roger, who is this Steve guy who keeps calling?"

"Steve?" I mumble, making a weak attempt to sit up in bed. Do I know a Steve?

"Yeah. He must have called about five times already. Who is he?"

I shrug and give up on the task of trying to sit up. I relax my muscles and let myself collapse on the bed again, not even noticing the pain as the hard mattress collides with the heavy weight of my body… I'm too busy focusing on all the other pain in every single part of my body.

When I open my clenched eyelids I notice that Mark is standing right above me, a concerned look in his deep azure eyes.

"What the hell did you do last night, Rog?" he asks, wrapping my blanket a little tighter around me.

"Um… I just went out with the band. I guess I had a little too much to drink."

I can see the suspicion dancing in Mark's eyes as he opens his mouth to respond, but thankfully, he is cut off by the shrill ringing of the phone.

Giving me one last, hard look, Mark walks out of the room and a second later reappears, tossing the phone at me.

"It's Steve again."

I take the phone hesitantly and bring it to my ear, unsure of who it is exactly that I'm talking to.

"Hello?"

"Rog?" a raspy voice whispers in almost a seductive purr.

I wince at the nickname "Rog." No one calls me Rog, NO one. Well, with Mark being the one exception. So why the hell does this guy think he can get away with it when the rest of the world would be practically beaten to death?"

"Roger," I growl, correcting him.

The voice on the other line laughs, a low sound…nearly a rumble.

"You don't remember me do you?"

"Um…"

"Listen, why don't you come over to my place. I can…help you remember."

"Uh… Your place? And where exactly is that?" I ask, a little impatiently.

He laughs again. "Do you remember the party last night?"

I nod, but then realize that he can't see me. "Yeah."

"I'm one apartment up."

"Okaaay," I reply, thinking back to last night, trying to remember a Steve and why he would be calling me. But my mind is blank. I spent most of it in a haze, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot place a man named Steve in there anywhere.

So I hang up the phone, fully intending to ditch the guy. I mean, if he was someone important I would remember him, right? But in the end my curiosity gets the better of me so after the heroin has worn off completely and I'm feeling a little better I get out of bed and head down to the sight of last night's party.

Pulling at a loose thread on my jacket, I hesitantly bring a shaking hand up to the door and knock.

"Hey there, Cutiepie." A low voice growls as a man, who I assume must be Steve, opens the door.

Cutiepie? I raise an eyebrow at the stranger and he merely chuckles as he snakes an arm around my waist. As I stand there gaping at him I feel the hand drift down lower and it is then that the night's previous events come back to me. Oh. Shit…