Everybody knows you’re not supposed to have a needle sticking out of your arm. But does everybody know what to do if there is an unauthorized needle sticking out of your arm?
Exactly. What?
Do you pull it out? Or is it one of those things, like moving a body after an accident, where you could possibly do more harm than good? What to do? Do I google it or call an ambulance? Yes, maybe call an ambulance. But then that definitely raises this incident to a higher level of parental involvement.
Fuck it. Remy is unconscious on the floor.
Okay, I’m gonna call an ambulance.
I notice, as I’m waiting, that there are a few things to give everyone hope. It appears that Remy is breathing. Put your ear next to her mouth and there’s definitely breath there. But that is all. The lights are definitely out in all other categories.
Well, it’s a good thing she stopped doing drugs.
Remy, please fucking don’t die. Please fucking don’t die. Please fucking don’t die.
I don’t even feel like I’m in this room right now. I feel like I’m up at the top of this room, looking down at someone whose best friend is lying half-dead from an overdose with a needle sticking out of her arm. Oh, but that person sitting there is me.
That appears to be me crying and generally freaking out. I think that’s the normal reaction to this situation. But the me who’s looking down, removed from everything? That me has just switched to the off position. Powered down. Gone into sleep mode.
Boy, those ambulances sure know how to find a place. That was fast. I guess that’s what happens when you live in a castle.
There’s a second where I wonder if I’ll be in trouble. Like somehow I’ll be busted for even being here. But no. I’m not the show. I’m not the main event.
No one ever locks the front door around here, so these guys are yelling from downstairs and I am yelling from up here and now they are in the room. Both of these guys are pretty square-looking and they seem almost concerned about me, too, which is weird.
I think I should probably be doing something vaguely proactive or supportive, but for some reason all I can do is sit here, on the floor, staring, listening to all the commotion in a state of paralysis.
I know I should call someone. An adult. Someone responsible. Someone not me. My hand reaches into Remy’s bag and pulls out her phone—a separate hand. Just doing it. Not my hand. Not my brain. Not my will.
For some reason I call Humbert Humbert.