It had been a year since Kayla last used. Her eyes were brighter, her hair combed and her life on track. She answered phones with a professional voice, filed papers with responsible dilligence, and got coffee with the other interns.
Of course, she remembered her friends; even still talked to them sometimes. A few had gone to rehab. Not most.
Mostly, she remembered Charlie, who overdosed and lay in her car unconcious for two hours. She remembered wanting more than anything to see his eyelid flutter, or hand twitch; anything to take away the guilty panic she felt pressing on her chest, her opperational phone burning a hole in her pocket. The numbers 9-1-1 flashing across her mind. She remembered crying hysterically into his powder blue tshirt. Checking his pulse every thirty seconds. Driving to the hospital shaking from head to toe, then dragging his limp body to the automatic doors. Watching from her car, tears streaming down her face, waiting for a doctor to find him.
Leaving flowers on his grave.