When you take OxyContin with Tramadol, a crazy thing can happen where your high is accompanied by an affect that happens to your hearing, not unlike having your head shoved in a tin can and dragged down to the Mariana Trench.
So when my best friend, fucked up on the cocktail of random prescription drugs we raided from his drug addicted mother's medicine cabinet, slit his wrist with a box cutter, my brain was too busy being underwater to hear his childish laughter turn to painful screams and then nothing.
And when his mother's distant screams woke me in the morning, before I opened my eyes, I noticed an overwhelming smell like a nine volt battery in my nostrils.
And when I opened my eyes, I could see his mother two feet in front of me, her screams sounding distorted and far away.
Because sometimes a random combination of drugs like the ones moving through my intestines can damage the brain's ability to process noise.
Because my eyes looked down at what she was screaming at, I vomited white and watery onto the floor.
Because dried blood doesn't look the way it does in the shows on TNT.
Because my best friend's torso was covered in a thick mat of brown blood, the dried parts looking like chips of rust from an old metal pipe, and his body surrounded by a pool of molasses blood leading to the jagged mess of flesh pushing out of his sliced open skin like thin pieces of roast beef with the fat still on them.
And when she screams and asks what the fuck happened and what the fuck I did, her mouth is miles from my ears, and I'm miles away from his bedroom.
And when my mouth tries to make the sounds to tell her that I didn't do anything, she can't understand what I'm saying because I can't understand what I'm saying because my voice is the next town over and I'm forgetting how to put together vowels and consonants in my mouth and she's slapping me and shaking me and I when don't respond, she lets go and leaves the room.
And because I just woke up, when I try to stand I slip on the vomit and blood and fall down on the floor next to him, and now I'm looking at his eyes and how they are filled with smoke, and the green doesn't look so green anymore and maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't have tried to get fucked up last night. And maybe we fucked everything up.
And when she comes back in the room, I don't hear her because my ears are not in this room and neither am I.
And when she screams at me and says I told him to steal her drugs I can't defend myself.
And when she loads the shotgun I can't hear or see because I'm looking back at his eyes and the green is almost gone and I just want to see the green again.
But when she shoots the gun and blows a hole through the roof of her mouth and covers the wall with her brains, I know.
Because when a sound like that hits my damaged ears, it sounds like my little tin can in the trench below the sea got split open by a hammer and the space between my ears rings and pulsates and hurts like the worst pain in my life.
And when what's left of her head falls on my back and between me and him, I can feel her sticky gray matter splatter on me and I can feel her hot blood run down my neck.
And when I look at him again I can see his eyes move.
And when he takes a sharp desperate inhale and his eyes start moving again and he screams for help, I can hear him.