Mailing dope seemed like wasting it and I hated to waste drugs, so personally, so I never mailed him shit.
In those six months I made new connections and continued to try and kill the pain of life the only way I knew how and awaited my partners return.
When he came back he had lost his swagger and seemed almost afraid to
see me. We went out once and he left early and said he had a meeting to go to. Time came and went in the odd speeds that only the insanity of drugs can make it pass. I saw less and less of him.
Tobey called me and said he had been clean for almost 9 months and was moving to New Orleans to go to school. I didn't know they would let ex-dope fiends into college so I was surprised to hear this. I was both happy and jealous of him. I wished him the best and expected to see him around the holidays.
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About two months later I got a phone call from Tobey. He was still in New Orleans and wanted to talk. I was busy being high and partially paranoid from the coke and told him I'd see him at the holidays and made a quick exit from the phone conversation.
This was the last time I talked to Tobey. 12 hours later his parents called and said he had shot himself. He was dead. I flipped the fuck out. My partner, my ace, my best friend was dead. I went to the liquor store and got a pint. Even though I was getting drunk I still hurt.
I felt as if the world was caving in around me and not even alchohol could help me avoid it.
Nothing could stop the pain. Nothing could stop the pain until I found some heroin later that night and knew what Tobey spoke of. Life hurts. This powder stops it. It all seemed so logical at the time. The dance had started, the love affair with dope that twisted my person and almost destroyed my soul had .Eventually not even the heroin could stop the pain, but that is another story, and this one is about Tobey. I love him with all my heart, and he was right, the pain never really stops. At 3 years clean, not a day goes by where my heart does not skip a beat with a thought of him.
I love you Tobey.
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