I leaned back against the blue-tiled bathroom wall. My eyes kept unfocusing, everything becoming blurry and kind of distant. A million miles away.

I let myself slide down to the floor. My headphones sat softly over my ears, playing _Creep_ by Stone Temple Pilots.

Drowsily, I reached for my little handheld mirror. My eyelids sat heavily on green eyes with constricted black pupils. The mirror slipped from my hand, and my head fell back.

“_Feeling uninspired, think I’ll start a fire/everybody run, Bobby’s got a gun/think you’re kind of neat, then she tells me I’m a creep,_” sang Scott Weiland into my ears.

A cough grew in my throat but my body was too exhausted to do anything. A bubble of yellow bile slide down my chin, a groan falling from my lips.

My eyes turned to the white popcorn ceiling, staring vacantly.

I was been burned at the stake on Mars, I was killing Medusa over and over in the dunes of some far away hell. I was floating in a numb, brain-dead heaven, I was stuck under the heavy weighted yet warm blanket of drugs.

My eyelids fell shut, and, in the distance, rang a scream from my mother’s lips. Sirens grew loud, quiet, loud, and the lights behind my eyes flickered. I could hear sobbing, somewhere.

Somewhere didn’t matter anymore, and I died on a stretcher.