11. Is that you?

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What did he ingest?

The paramedics keep asking me that, and each time they repeat themselves my world fades out a little more, vision blurring. Tears were bleeding out of me. They had to rip Vince from my hold because I couldn't physically get my fingers to let go.

I had called 911 right when he collapsed. They asked what was wrong and I had said, "My boyfriend-my- my friend, he passed out, he had something in his system. Drugs, I think, yes. I don't know, I'm sorry. Please hurry please please hurry."

I held Vince's face between my palms, his breathing barely audible.

"Please," I said into his chest. Please don't leave me. Not now, not when you've made me need you.

"What did he take?" said a woman paramedic. "It would be helpful if you could tell us."

"I don't know," I said for the fifth time. They didn't believe that I didn't know. You could see that on their faces, the doubt. "He came in looking pale and sickly and high and then he collapsed. That's all I can -" I started to cry harder. "I can't give you anymore information," I said between breaths.

My fingers were clutching at the fabric of his shirt again, the only thing keeping me alive was his chest moving up and down, indicating breathing.

Indicting that he was still alive.

"Okay," she said, sympathy in her voice. "Alright." Finally, at least, it seemed she believed me.

They started to tell me that I needed to let him go again, because he needed to go to the hospital. I said I needed to go with him, he couldn't be alone, he has no one else, I need to. I held onto him tighter, in fear that they might try to pull me off again. I couldn't, couldn't let go.

They were talking about things like contacting family, asking about his drug use history, all these questions I couldn't answer - maybe I didn't really know Vince at all. I wanted to stop thinking about that.

They said I could come in the ambulance, that as long as I cooperated I could come. I promised as long as they let me touch him, to be sure he was breathing.

So we were inside the ambulance, and strangely the sirens were quite muted from the inside, and I had my head very close to Vince's. His skin was a grey whitish pale color and his eyelids looked thin and purplish. How could I not have seen this? how could I have missed this how how how -

"Please wake up," I whispered. "Please don't die please don't die please please I'm begging you don't die please I can't do it again please stay I'm sorry I didn't save you I'm sorry please please -" by this point, I could barely speak, choking back sobs of hysteria. I didn't know who I was talking to anymore, my dad, Vince, or myself.

The paramedics seemed to be monitoring him, and they kept looking at me, as if unsure whether they should be treating me as well.

"I promise I'll be better Vince I promise I'll be happy I promise I won't have panic attacks anymore I'll be happy I swear please live please," I said. He didn't move, didn't open his eyes, didn't make any signal to show he could hear me at all.

I still kept saying these things, scared to death of losing him of losing someone else please no I can't please

Please.

Finally, we were in the hospital. Then the paramedics were saying things like, "Drug overdose," and the doctors were all crowding around the stretcher and cutting with scissors down Vince's thin t-shirt, looking for signs of wounds or track marks, any injuries that could be hiding underneath clothing or clues to indicate what he took.

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