Smoke make me lose my memories. Drink make my body fail.

You stare at the ceiling for hours. Your head is a fog. Your thoughts slip in and out. Flashes. Glimpses. You see smoke.

Her song is a lie.

Mom pokes her head in the door. She sees you lying face up on your bed. You realize that your shoes are still on. It's obvious you can't sleep. She gives you that sad smile. By now you're used to it. You know it's there even when you close your eyes. It's hard to face. You know it's an unspoken 'thank you.' It's been a long day.

'Thank you for telling me. I needed to know. I love you, kid.'

So much is said in your avoided glance. You hate that you told and nothing has changed. Your big, bad sister snuck out. Again. Nothing is new.

You know Mom wonders whose car she left in. You know she wonders if she'll be back by morning. But your own mother is just as helpless as you. You squeeze your eyes tight. It shouldn't have to be this way. You wonder if having a real, live dad would make this any easier. But then you wonder if anything could make this any easier.

As you doubt, you avoid Mom's gaze. You have nothing to say. You gave all the secrets away with morning. You are reminded how like the word, mourning, it sounds. You are sure it's not just some funny coincidence.

There is nothing left in you. Your fight has fled and it leaves you hollowed. You wish Amber could see the mess she's left your already fragile family in. You feel broken.

You hear the door click shut after a few more silent, still moments. No one knows what to say. What to do. You think this is all your fault.

You couldn't save her. You did it all wrong. What were you thinking? There had to be a better way to have brought Mom out of the dark. You remember 'hindsight is 20/20.'

And so you do the only thing you can think of at the moment.

You stare at the ceiling. Even with your eyes trained up there, you know the clock on your nightstand has long since been past blinking midnight. Your head is a fog. Stranded in a maze, a labyrinth of sorts. Everything seems murky, heavy. You wonder if this is what it's like to feel high. You doubt it. You feel pretty low, actually. An insignificant, naïve little brother who can't do anything.

You wonder what makes someone worth saving.

More thoughts unwillingly slip in and out. Again, you see flashes. Glimpses. You think you smell smoke.

Nine hundred ninety-nine seconds later and you now see her face right up there dancing on the ceiling. Sleep clouds your vision. You think you see her, hazy in the shades and circles of smoke rings she's trailing around from the joint between two fingertips.

You think you see her mouth open wide in laughter and her eyes squint in hysterical amusement. But you can't hear it. You don't know why she's laughing or who she's with. You don't get the joke. The laughter's probably at you. You think you see her point a finger. You can't hear a thing.

Your fault.

You're losing your grip. You can't believe you led her out to another night on the town. She practically ran away from you, her own brother. You told Mom and your older sister ran away screaming. You should have known.

But you don't think you could have foreseen the way she detached herself from Mom and hit her for good measure. You don't think you've ever seen her feelings displayed more clearly. You wonder if you'll ever get this morning out of your head.

You feel it already inscribed in the inside your heart— the way Mom clutched her hand to her cheek. It slipped to her chest and anchored above her heart. You know she felt the pain etch out a place inside. An unwanted, permanent tattoo. Another scar. You feel it, too.

You're losing steam. You feel your eyes fluttering. No. You tell yourself you can't. You have to be up when your sister gets home. She will come home. You will help her. Make sure she's okay. Alive. You want desperately to apologize, to find another way to make her right.

But it's useless. You're useless.

You fall asleep to the madness.

Smoke make me lose my memories.

You think you dream you hear a voice. You think it sounds like Mom. She says, "Honey, get up. There's been an accident."

All you see is the blackness. You still can smell the inexplicable scent of smoke wafting through. You wonder what kind of dream this is.

The voice grows louder now. It sounds close to tears. There's a slight bit of pressure on your arm. "Drew, honey, come on. It's Amber."

You sit up. You are fully awake. You've woken up to a nightmare. Somehow you always knew it would come to this.

You say, "Mom, what—" You struggle with words. You think your voice resonates oddly in your own ears. It sounds strangled. "What are you talking about?"

She looks at you with sad, sad eyes. You can see they're shining, though the room is dark. You think that by having her say the words a second time, it can somehow, magically be taken it back. Reverse the damage that's been done.

But she raises her shoulders in a feeble, forced shrug. "Honey, I don't know what happened. Amber was in a car accident. I can't explain any further. We have to get to the hospital. Now."

You feel yourself nod numbly. You hear yourself say, "Okay."

You don't know what commands you to follow your Mom out the door, but somehow you do. Somehow you're buckling your seatbelt and watching blindly as Mom races through the sleeping universe, lit by glowing street lights lining the highway.

You watch a lamp flicker and sputter, shining unsteadily, until at last it vanishes. Flicks off with one last little feeble flash. Goes out. Dead.

Drink make my body fail.