Prologue
It didn’t rain.
Not when I found her lifeless body slumped on our fading blue lounge - the needle still sticking out from her arm. Not when the wailing sirens pulled up in front of the paint-chipped sign, reading West Block Apartments. Not when they wheeled her out on a gurney, zipped inside a black tarpaulin bag.
It didn’t rain. The sky didn’t even grey. Time didn’t slow down to an agonising drawl or speed past in a whirlwind of chaos. It kept moving at the same monotonous pace.
The sky was painted in a pastoral blue, decorated with feathery clouds. The sun glimmered, warming my goosebumped skin. And the breeze carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle from the overgrown flower beds.
It was as if the world did not mourn her death, just as she had not celebrated her life.
She spent most of it in an altered state, unbothered by things like rent, bills or groceries. Her only driving force was the hunt for the next high.
There was no stability. There was no security. She did not nurture. But she was familiar - lounging on the couch, her chest slowly rising and falling.
Until this morning.
This morning I woke up orphaned. And it didn’t even rain.
