I arrived at about 9:30pm, right after Kat had dissolved two tabs under her tongue. In the corner Jody, had a sick look on her face. She didn’t like the taste of mushrooms and neither did Fallon, but orange juice made it better. Cooper, Jameson, and Jake all had their tiny red pills. Cooper and Jameson took twelve. Jake took sixteen because he heard that’s how much it takes to kill someone. Schmooter was the only one outside. He had a bottle of Jameson in one hand, and the other was grasping onto the side of the house. His head was in the bushes. I had to turn around because I hate seeing people puke.
“Don’t worry. He does it to feel good.” Jody patted my shoulder. She was excited about what was to come. She’d never taken shrooms before, but it was her birthday and they were a gift. The whole night was a gift.
Carson and I decided to stay sober because not everyone could be fucked up at once. But that was really just our excuse to not take shrooms, tripple C, or acid. We didn’t like our realities tampered with as much as they did, and it was sort of fun to watch them all enter different worlds. Tonight wasn’t fun.
Jody was probably the hardest to watch, but not just in terms of safety. Watching Jody that night was like being forced to watch a family dog die in front of your eyes without being able to do anything about it. It was like she had entered the depths of hell.
Curled up in a ball halfway in my lap, she screamed, “Get her out of the room. I don’t want her here.” She believed Fallon, a friend of twelve years, was the devil. It was hard to watch this. Fallon was confused, and Jody was terrified.
During some points Fallon tried to calm her down, but every time she reached out to touch her, Jody would scream. I’d never seen Jody cry before that night. There was nothing I could do but to put Fallon in the other room, by herself. But all she did was look at her hands for the rest of the night—smiling. Whenever I asked her what it was she saw, she said she couldn’t explain it.
Cooper, on the other hand, hadn’t moved for hours. He was on the couch with his eyes closed. I felt the need to check that he was still breathing all night. At one point during his catatonic state, I moved him just the slightest bit so I could sit down. His eyes flew open, and found mine instantly. I was scared because he looked so scared.
“I can’t move. I’m inside this couch. I sunk into this couch, and I’m still sinking.” I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how to. All he could talk about was the stupid couch and how he was a part of it. How every time I tried to move him it hurt. So I gave up trying to make myself a spot.
Jameson was the hardest to watch, and this time I am talking in terms of safety. He was always crazy when he was sober, and he was an extremist when he wasn’t. We couldn’t get that fucking bowing knife out of his hand, and whenever he looked at me or Carson, our stomachs dropped.
At one point, Jameson pinned Jake to the pool table. He had that stupid knife up to Jake’s neck, threatening him–his own friend. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for Jameson to do, but this time it was different. There wasn’t a playfulness to it. It was harsh and real.
The scariest part was that Jake wanted him to do it. He wanted to be killed. Or maybe not killed, but he wanted to die. All night he kept pulling pills out of his pocket, and he’d say, “It would only take one more of these to kill me.” He took one and a half more on top of the sixteen he took earlier that night. As each hour passed, and he continued breathing, he did nothing but complain about life—a life that he couldn’t realize was so beautiful.
I took a moment to stare at them. They did it for the same reasons anyone does anything, I guess. They did it to feel good.