Life Will Out

6

In the midst of my drug-induced high, I find myself on the rooftop, the edge dangerously close, feeling an exhilarating but reckless sense of invulnerability. Ruby's voice reaches me from below, laced with panic and concern. "Amelia! Get down! What in God's name are you doing!"Her words barely register as I stand there, teetering on the brink, a laugh bubbling up from deep within me. "I think I'm going to jump, Ruby! Maybe I could land," I call down, my voice tinged with a dangerous mix of euphoria and recklessness. The absurdity of the thought sends another wave of laughter through me, and I notice Ruby can't help but let out a nervous giggle, despite the seriousness of the situation. 

"Amelia! You know that's crazy," she shouts, her voice strained with fear. "Amelia, get down, dude. Your mom's been looking for you all weekend!" Her words about my mom searching for me only fuel my laughter. "Let her look! I'm freaking invincible. I'm a goddamn superhero," I shout back, the pills warping my sense of reality, making me feel untouchable, omnipotent. 

In a moment of reckless daring, I run towards the edge of the rooftop. Ruby's gasp of fear is audible even from up here. As I reach the edge, ready to embrace the wild impulse, a sharp command pierces the night. "STOP!" I whirl around, and the flashing lights of police cars flood my vision. The vibrant reds and blues meld together in a kaleidoscope of colors, creating an illusion of Christmas in the middle of spring. The surreal beauty of the scene, amplified by the drugs coursing through me, captivates my attention, momentarily pulling me back from the edge. In that instant, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. The police, the flashing lights, Ruby's frantic pleas – they all converge, breaking through the haze of invincibility the pills had cast over me. A sense of gravity returns, a realization of the danger I'm in, both physically and legally. The laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a growing sense of dread and confusion as the consequences of my actions start to become clear. The situation on the rooftop escalates quickly, with the arrival of the police adding an unexpected level of seriousness to my high-fueled antics. "Get down from there at once," one of the officers commands firmly from below. My response is an uncontrollable burst of laughter, not from amusement but from the sheer irony and absurdity of the situation.

"Funny thing is... I think I forgot how," I shout back, half-joking, half-admitting the truth in my altered state. I see the officer reaching for his walkie-talkie, likely calling for additional help, perhaps the fire department. But in my drug-induced haze, the gravity of the situation feels distant, almost unreal.

I lie back on the roof, feeling the rough texture of the tiles against my back through my shirt, and a sense of existential wonder washes over me. 'What is life?' I ponder, lost in a sea of confusion and drugs.

Suddenly, a familiar voice pierces the night, filled with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "Amelia Frances—" The voice gasps in shock. "What are you doing up there?" Startled, I sit up and rub my eyes, smearing my eyeliner in the process. "MOM!!" I exclaim, a mix of surprise and amusement in my voice. My laughter resumes, uncontrollable and wild, as I stand up. "Mom, look!" I declare with a manic energy. "I'm a goddamn superhero." As I approach the edge again, caught up in the delusion of invincibility, a sudden firm grip pulls me back. Startled, I slowly turn to see a police officer, I read her badge name "Regina.", holding onto me. "Oh please," I say dismissively, trying to shrug off her hold. "Let go of me." But Officer Regina doesn't relent. She turns me around to face her, her expression one of determined concern. "Look, I don't know, nor care what you are on. My only goal is getting you down safely, and we'll go from there," she says, her voice a mixture of authority and kindness.

I giggle, still under the influence of the drugs. "My mom would never let you take me anywhere but home," I retort, half-joking, half-serious. As the reality of the situation begins to seep through the haze, a sense of vulnerability surfaces, a realization of just how far I've strayed from the person I used to be and this scares me but I can't help it. 

Safely off the roof, the tension between me and my mom is palpable. Officer Regina addresses her, suggesting that I spend the night under her care to grasp the consequences of my actions. In my agitated state, I lash out at my mom, my words filled with anger and frustration. The officer's grip on me tightens as I struggle, my emotions running wild.They escort me to the back of the police car, and as I sit there, a sense of resignation washes over me. My thoughts aren't on my mom or the trouble I might be in, but rather on how I'll manage to get my next fix while possibly stuck in a cell. I watch distantly as the officer talks with my mom, my mind racing with plans and worries.Soon, Regina gets back into the car, and we drive off. She looks at me, her expression a mix of pity and concern. "You know, you're such a beautiful girl," she comments, her voice gentle. I only nod, feeling sluggish and disconnected.  

"It just hurts to see when it starts this young," she adds, a note of sadness in her voice. I respond, somewhat defensively, "Look, lady, I know it's a sad situation, but you don't have to rub it in." My head throbs, and I squeeze my temples, trying to alleviate the pain and frustration. "Amelia, you do know you can get help. You can quit," Regina says, her voice earnest. The suggestion of quitting, of leaving behind the very thing that I feel keeps me afloat, almost makes me sick. "It would take one hell of a drug to make me want to quit," I retort, my words reflecting my deep entrenchment in addiction. Regina seems puzzled by my response. "What does that even mean?" she asks. I don't have a clear answer. In truth, I don't fully understand my own statement. It's a reflection of my internal conflict - a part of me recognizes the destructiveness of my habits, but the stronger part isn't ready to let go.  "I don't know. Can we change topics?" I ask, feeling overwhelmed. She obliges, asking about my performance in school. When I mention my good grades, she seems surprised, leading to a deeper discussion about my use of drugs in school.  "How are you in school?" "fantastic. All A's I don't know how but I can lock in long enough to get things done at school." "you use at school?" "Gina... I'm an addict. Don't ask stupid questions." "no, no. it just shocks me that's all. that you're doing that good." "Have you maybe thought 'hmm maybe the drugs are for coping not for fun? maybe they clear her mind long enough to do her work but short enough to make her feel euphoric.' or did you just think I hit the parties way too hard?" she giggles a little. "Amelia, no one becomes an addict because it's fun. Every addict has a story. Every single one. You would know that if you did a twelve-step program, but you will when you're ready. You'll figure it all out soon enough, or you'll die before you can put those good grades to use. Your choice," she says, her words stark and unfiltered. Her blunt honesty hits me hard, leaving a heavy silence in the car for the rest of the ride. Her words echo in my mind, a stark reminder of the crossroads I'm at - a choice between seeking help and continuing down a path that could lead to my destruction.