I Collect Broken People

Everyone has lost someone they loved. Everyone has had their heart broken.
When John* died though, it kind of broke my soul.

I have this memory of him in high school. It was one of those trust-building field trips, with all the ropes and games and shit.

And a climbing wall.

My most vivid memory from high school is watching John as he flew up that wall.
He made it look effortless, like he was immune to the laws of gravity.

He perched on the top of that wall and grinned down at the rest of us with his amazingly brilliant smile.

The sight of John smiling down at us so dominates my memory of that day that I don't even remember if anyone else even made it up to the top of the wall.
Myself included.

It wasn't the fact that John died that broke me. It was the horrifying way that he died. 

A passer-by found him passed out in the passenger seat of a pickup truck, just a block or two from the local hospital. He never regained consciousness, and he was removed from life support 10 days later.

Someone had reported that the vehicle was left in the parking lot by another man, who then got into a car that was driven by a woman and another man.
When they printed men and women, I'm assuming they meant people around the same age as John... 17, 18, maybe 19 years old.
Maybe not. I don't really know.

I can imagine they were just scared kids. I would assume there were some sort of criminal charges they would have faced if they'd taken John into the ER instead of leaving him alone to die in a parking lot just a couple hundred feet from an antidote.

Maybe they couldn't fathom having to explain to their parents why they were hanging out with a dude that was overdosing on heroin.
To them, I suppose, avoiding the questions and the parental scenes, must have been worth letting John die.

It could have happened anytime.
He could have overdosed and died alone in his room, or anywhere else when no one was around.

He didn't.

He overdosed with a group of friends that left him alone to die.
I have never been able to wrap my head around that.

I would like to say that I don't know anyone who does any illegal or dangerous drugs.

I wish I could say I've never seen anyone do too much of a potentially deadly substance.

 I'd like to say that I've never been around a person that was suicidal and crying out for help, in whatever fucked up way it happened to come out.

 I wish I could say I'd never seen someone hurt themselves or someone else.

I do.

I have.

I've been terrified to let someone fall asleep.

I've watched pupils dilate to almost nothing, and also grow so large that a person's iris seemingly disappeared.

I've poked and slapped and screamed.

I've taken away weapons and said all of the wrong things.

 I've cried and yelled and, sometimes, okay, often times, I've hit people.

I've made it perfectly clear that I am not afraid to call 911 for someone, anyone, even if it costs them their jobs or kids or whatever else they might think matters.

I don't know if there are some sort of charges that can be pressed if you are bringing someone in for an overdose, but I am not afraid of that either.

I have been terrified, angry, and fed up with people doing stupid shit over and over. I've absolutely wanted to quit on people.
 But then?

John's memory haunts me.

I picture him, alone in that truck.

He may have lived on life support for ten days, but essentially, he died alone.

I wonder if he was scared.

If he was lonely.

If he even knew what was happening to him.

I wonder if he knew how close he was to that hospital.

To life.

And I don't leave people alone.

*Names have been changed.