Wind whistled against the window. Lip-cracking heat permeated the dark room, spewed by a hissing radiator. Roaming through dreamscapes, burrowed deep under clammy blankets, I heard my roommate switch on his bedside lamp, casting an unsought yellow flare over my eyelids. His blaring voice stole me from sleep.

"I hadda friend, like my best friend growin’ up, he nevah didda drug in his life. High school came ‘round and I got inta the shit real bad. Started with the blues, but before I knew it I was slammin’ fuckin’ brown before homeroom. He was askin’ me about it, said he wanted ta try it, see why I liked it so much. I told ‘em no at first, but one day I was sick, like really fuckin’ sick, and I ended up usin’ him ta cop. He always had cash on him, the muthafucka!" Petty tears plummeted from his pimply cheeks. He wiped his face, gritted his teeth, and drew his jaw back like a pistol slide.

"Ah… yeah," I said, exasperated, reluctantly dismissing dreams. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?" I asked.

"He OD’d," he said, denying my request.

"I’m really sorry to hear that, man, but it’s late and I was—"

"I sold ‘em the dope. I fuckin’ sold it to ‘em. And I shot ‘em up, I fuckin’ hit ‘em fa the first time and he went out immediately!" he sniveled, threw his legs off the bed, and sat upright, staring in my direction with erratic eyes. He hadn’t spoken a word to me past "Sup, dude?" in the mere hours since I arrived. I hadn’t slept in months. Maybe years.

Maybe ever.

It’s over, I thought. This is hell. I’ll be woken endlessly by this blabbering junkbox. The devil holds a mirror to me as punishment.

"I’m sorry, man. I really am. That’s terrible. I had a friend OD, too," I said, feigning a tender tone.

"Yeah, but I betcha didn’t shoot ‘em up, I betcha didn’t kill ‘em! I fuckin’ killed ‘em! It shoulda been me!" he squealed, and the cacophony of his cries seemed to penetrate the door.

"Keep it down, man. I don’t want you getting in trouble—"

"Ha! Trouble! I’m already in fuckin’ trouble, my folks don’t want anythin’ ta do with me! I’m fucked! I deserve ta fuckin’ die! I fuckin’ deserve it! It shoulda been me, not Mikey! It shoulda been me!" His volume was unfettered now, full blast. I wondered when the door would break open. When the demons would come crashing in. When they’d put him down. If anyone heard his caterwauling. If I deserved this.

I did.

"I understand, let’s just talk about it. What was Mikey like? What were you guys into as kids? I used to ride dirt bikes, I was terrible at it, but—"

"I don’t givva fuck! It’s my fault, my fuckin’ fault!" He stood, staggered to a small safe on the floor by his bed, and punched in the code, howling, "It’s my fuckin’ fault!" incessantly.

"C’mon, man. Try to relax… let’s talk about this."

He opened the safe and revealed a vast array of orange pill bottles. He took three at random and returned to his bed, leaving the safe ajar. Seated, he fished a soda bottle from under his bed and threw the cap at the wall.

"What’re you doing?" I said, doubtless of his intentions.

"It’s my fuckin’ fault! Imma killer! I deserve ta fuckin’ die, there’s no reason fa me ta be alive! I’m fuckin’ useless!" he bawled, tears gushing from his skull, and started dumping pills into his palm.

"You need to stop! I’m not just gunna sit here and watch you eat all those pills," I said, continuing, "I get that you’re upset, I do, but this isn’t the way to go about it." Besides, we’re already dead, I thought, adding, "Your friend chose to do drugs just like we did. It’s not your fault," knowing it was a lie. People kill each other, I thought. We’re increasingly adept at it. We bomb, shoot, stab, rape, rob, lie, cheat, steal, fuck, and fuck over. We emotionally torture, murdering from the inside out. We’re selfish, awful things, mindlessly protective of our imagined supremacy.

We are the fucking worst.

"Fuck this! Fuck this world, fuck alla these fuckin’ people in it, fuck it all!" He scooped the pills into his mouth, twenty at a time, and gulped them down with soda, violently choking and heaving.

"Stop!" I snapped. "Fucking stop!"

He did not stop.

I bolted to the door and peered into the hallway. The darkness was frigid. Vague cries from the damned rung out from wraith-like silhouettes. I ran into the dark, grabbed at the railing, and inched my way down the stairs toward the light.

He had swallowed a hundred pills by the time I reached the front desk.

"Joseph, you’re not supposed to leave your room after dark."

"Send someone upstairs now! My roommate is trying to kill himself!"

"Okay, Joseph. Are you okay? Do you need anything?" The monotone man had no eyelids. His face changed every time I blinked.

Three blurs whizzed by me.

"I’m fine… can I go have a smoke?" I asked, catching my disturbed expression in a window’s reflection.

"You may, but please stay on the grounds."

Outside was desolate. The shadowy sky spat sleet. I lit my second cigarette as the ambulance pulled up singing its mortal song. The paramedics were grinning red demons. They’re here, I thought. He was restrained on a stretcher less than five minutes later. He concealed his shamewounded face as they wheeled him out. I finished my smoke and returned to our room. I stared at his empty bed for a while, then his open safe.

We’re already dead, I thought, closing my eyes and falling asleep.

Read Chapter Thirty

Buy the paperback/ebook here.

Notes—This chapter was heavily inspired by Jean-Paul Sartre’s play No Exit.

One of my housemates overheard me recording this and thought I was having a mental breakdown. He said, “Hey, man, everything okay?”

People ask questions like “Are you okay?” out of obligation. Because silence makes them squirm. Most men fill silence with mindless drivel due to ego and insecurity.

If someone asked you, “Are you okay?” or “How are you?” and you responded with the truth (or anything other than “Good, thanks! How are you?”), they’d look at you like a madman and talk about you behind your back. “That guy’s fuckin’ crazy, he unloaded all this shit on me the other day!”

People suck. We live in a society powered by formalities. Every interaction I have is phony. Contrived by both parties. Every conversation is utter bullshit. We never talk about what we should be talking about. We save that for social media, the fake wars we fight behind our glowing screens.

And it disgusts me.

Maybe try being honest with someone today and see how they respond. I bet they’ll be caught off guard. I bet they’ll look at you funny.

But maybe not. Maybe today’s the day Americans decide to cut the shit.

Maybe.