"The memory of you is like a drug to me." –Jeremy Aldana

"Jeremy?" I called that afternoon, letting myself in through the front door and running up the stairs so quickly I almost fell over in my impractical ballet flats.

I burst into his room and looked around to find him dressed in another one of his usual black shirts. He was toweling off his dark hair after a shower, and turned around, surprised. "Per?"

"I need a hit," I told him, breathless and shaking. "Please."

"Perrie, I'm sorry," he told me.

"Jeremy, please," I whispered feverishly, scratching my forearm with the need for release. "I need another shot."

He sighed, but nodded. "Okay."

He moved to his cupboard, and I looked around his room, which was dark and gloomy, but organized. I rubbed my neck and tugged at my hair, eager for something to numb the pain and make me feel human.

I felt hot and sticky and confined in my funeral outfit, and desperately needed to get it off to feel like myself again. I kicked off my shoes and rolled down my stockings, happy to have my legs free. Then I unzipped the corseted black dress and let it fall off me, so that I wore only the thin black slip. I scratched my arm again and tugged at my hair, which had been intricately pinned back for the memorial service.

My hair fell in a tumble of messy blonde waves around my face, and I rocked forward on his bed, burying my face in my hands and taking a deep breath.

I felt warm and gentle hands tugging persistently at my arms, and met Jeremy's gaze. I noticed him holding the rubber tubing and the needle, and sighed in relief.

I held out my arm, and he begrudgingly tied the orange rubber around and uncapped the needle. I turned away, and hardly felt the pinprick of pain as he inserted the needle. He pulled it back out, and I immediately felt the rush of endorphins and release. I sighed and shut my eyes, savoring the feeling of euphoria.

"That's so good," I whispered, giggling airily to myself.

Jeremy threw the needle carelessly on his dresser and sat on the bed next to me. "You okay?" he asked.

I opened my eyes, feeling the initial sense of joy escaping me, and a tender melancholy replacing it. "My best friend just died, Jer. How do you think I feel?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know it was hard on you."

"You don't have to pretend," I whispered. "I know you hated her."

"But you didn't," Jeremy replied. "And so I'm sorry that you lost her. I never wanted to see you as hurt as you are right now."

"I just wanna forget," I told him. "I want to be anyone but me. Everyone thinks I killed her."

"I know you didn't," Jeremy replied, squeezing my shoulders comfortingly.

"Every time I close my eyes, all I see is her lying there in that river, lifeless. She was so cold. She died alone and scared. I should've gotten there in time." I looked up at him tearfully. "Why does it hurt so much?" Jeremy pulled me into a hug, and I gripped him tightly. "She didn't deserve to die."

"No one deserves to die," Jeremy whispered. "I promise it'll get better."

"When? How?" I asked. "My best friend is dead. And look at me now. I'm just a junkie with no friends."

"You have me," Jeremy offered.

I forced a smile. "Yeah. I do."

I pulled back and lay down on the bed, staring at the beige ceiling. I could see her face painted up there, hair long and smooth, face youthful and flawless. I squeezed my eyes shut and sucked in deep breaths, letting the drugs numb my system and take me away.

Jeremy lay down next to me, his arm gently brushing mine. It was a small comfort, and, in a movement of boldness, I reached out and linked my fingers with his, squeezing tightly. I didn't open my eyes, but I could feel his brown ones boring into the side of my face. After a moment, his squeezed back, and I breathed an involuntary sigh of relief.

It had only been seven days since Cam had died, but everything had changed.

After I'd found her lying there, I had been thrown into a world of hurt. I'd pulled out my phone and run along the riverbank, searching for reception. When I located it, I called the police, and then waited by her body. The police had found me sobbing and clutching her lifeless corpse, knee-deep in water. She had been pale and completely still, eyelids purple, lips white, and face emotionless.

I'd been pulled away from her, whisked into the police station and forced to give a statement. Unsure of what I was supposed to say, I'd explained about the car accident and the call I'd received. I'd rushed there as soon as I could, but had been too late.

As soon as I left the station, I could tell already news had spread all over town. Teenagers on street corners whispered to each other, casting shifty glances at me as if I had been the one to drown her. Shaky and lost, my resolve had shattered, and I'd all but run to the Quagmire residence. Since his parents were rarely home, I'd gone straight to Jeremy.

Considering we'd left things on the shakiest note, I was surprised he'd even spoken to me at all. But when I burst into his room to find him listening to music, he immediately stood up and rushed to me. Maybe it was the tears in my eyes, or the fact I was covered in muddy pond scum.

Dosing myself up after so much abstention had been both hard and far too easy. The familiar prick of the needle had reminded me of the pain I felt, but the everlasting euphoria of the hit was far too comforting considering the means.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into him, and I clutched onto his arm and allowed him to hold me. "I promised her I'd never do drugs again," I whispered through numb lips. "She said it would only end up hurting me. But losing her... I've never felt this much pain before."

At first, I'd felt like I was letting her down. Associating with Jeremy, taking another hit like a common junkie... it had been the opposite of what Camila had wanted from me. But I'd needed some kind of escape from the horror and pain, and eventually it became easier to take the drugs. I hated how weak I was for relapsing, but it was the only way to escape the invasive thoughts that permeated my mind.

Was she dead because of me? I could've saved her! Why couldn't I have gotten there sooner?

I heard my cell phone ringing from across the room, and groaned, flinging a hand over my eyes. "Can you please get that?" I murmured, and heard the bed creak as he stood up and retrieved the phone.

"Hello?" he asked, and was silent for a moment. "Yeah, uh, just a sec."

He walked over to me, and I grunted as I sat up. "Who is it?"

"The police," he whispered. I frowned and grabbed the phone off of him, trying to correct my voice so I didn't sound as high as I was.

"Hello?" I croaked.

"Miss Donovan, it's Officer Holden, how are you?"

I rubbed my forehead. "What's going on?"

"I'm going to need to ask you to come down to the police station. We have a few questions," he told me.

I swallowed. "Officer, I've told you all that I know."

"We're sorry to disturb you, but it's protocol. Just a few questions."

I sighed, knowing that if I put up a protest I would make myself seem suspicious. "Okay, fine. I'll be there soon."

I ended the phone call and turned to Jeremy. "They need me at the police station. What do I do? I can't be caught high."

"Take a shower," he told me. "I'll brew some coffee and see if we can sober you up. I'll grab some of my sister's clothes and leave them on the bed. Come downstairs when you're ready."

He disappeared through the door, and I sighed and made my way to his bathroom, which smelled of spicy cologne and shower gel. I started the water, and billows of steam filled the bathroom.

I undressed and stepped under the misty spray, washing my hair and cleaning myself up. But every time I shut my eyes, all I could see was her. Sometimes laughing, from back in the times when we were best friends and everything was okay. Other times I'd see her as I last had, lifeless and cold in my arms.

She had had rings of bruises around her neck, some long and lean enough to be fingers, and others small enough to be fingertips. There had been no doubt it was a murder. I knew Camila had done bad things in her time, but I couldn't imagine anyone in Leighton Fields could be a killer. Who would do that to her?

I shut off the water, and immediately my body felt cold. I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around myself, and went to the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but I knew some of Jeremy's eye drops would clear up that problem. I still looked pale and gaunt; a shell of the girl I used to be. I was far too thin and pale, my hair was always messy and lank, and my eyes looked hollow and empty. I barely even recognized the girl I saw anymore. When had everything gone so wrong and how had I not seen it?

I walked into Jeremy's room to find a simple pair of jeans and a black sweater that covered my arms lying on the bed. I dressed quickly, and then threw my hair back into a ponytail without bothering to comb it. I didn't redo my makeup, but I could even find it in me to care that I probably looked like a nervous wreck.

I slowly walked down the sweeping stairs and into the kitchen, which was a sterile white marked with rich tapestries and expensive furnishings. Even though Jeremy's father was the mayor of the town, and money ran rampant in the family, it was always cold and lifeless. His father was rarely home, constantly on business trips as he tried to worm his way into the state senate (a moment of egregious reminiscence had me thinking that Cam could've cleared that up with one phone call). His mother was always at the family mansion in the Hamptons, and neither cared what their son was doing. It was the reason why he could maintain such a notorious personality. No one was there to uphold control.

"Feeling better?" Jeremy asked as I stepped into the kitchen, and held out a steaming mug of coffee.

"I feel high," I slurred, dropping into a chair and rubbing my forehead. "Maybe the coke wasn't such a good idea."

Jeremy slid a bottle of eye drops along the table, and I smiled gratefully and tipped my chin back, administering the drops. It wouldn't completely hide the evidence, but I could chalk the rest up to crying if need be. I just had to hope they didn't drug test me.

I took a long swig of coffee and allowed the steaming java to renew my energy. It was incredible how I knew I had to go into the police station to be questioned about my best friend's death, and it was becoming harder and harder to care. "God, this is the best I've felt in days. Have you got a new supplier?"

He looked away. "No, I just upped your dose."

"I thought that was the highest you could give me without overdosing," I replied, frowning.

He brought his own mug to his lips. "Yeah, well, I lied."

"Any tips on how to go undetected at the police station?" I asked.

"Act like you're not high," he muttered, and I turned to him.

"Are you angry at me?" I questioned.

He brought the mug down with more force than necessary and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, Per. I'm not angry at you."

"Just because my friend died doesn't mean you have to treat me like a child," I told him. "Talk to me, Jeremy."

He shook his head. "Look, it's not a big deal. Just drink your coffee and sober up. I'll give you a ride."

"Jeremy," I told him, a stern note to my voice. "Talk to me."

"It's amazing how you do that, you know," he told me begrudgingly, his brown eyes never straying from mine.

I tipped my head inquisitively to the side. "Amazing how I do what?"

"How you can just knock me over with one look," he replied. "You know, I made a promise to myself that I'd never let you take drugs again, and yet here I am, once again bowing to your every command."

"You should really strengthen your resolve," I replied, giggling girlishly.

"It's not a joke, Per," he replied. "What we're doing... it's not good for you. It's dangerous. And if something happens to you, it's my fault."

"Then why do you do it?" I asked.

"I think you and I both know why," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands and heaving a heavy sigh. "You're going to be the end of me."

"That makes two of you," I murmured, pouting and dropping my gaze to the dark liquid swirling below. Refractions of light glittered on the surface, and I stared, entranced.

Jeremy moved closer, and his large hand cupped my smaller one. "Hey, I didn't mean it like that. I just mean..."

I looked up and forced a smile. "I know what you mean, Jer. I'm a junkie. I'm worthless. Cam saw it, and now even you can see it." I pulled my hand out. "I'm a mess. Sorry for bothering you."

I stood up and teetered, and he immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me into him, stopping me from falling over. I hit a muscular stomach, and thin arms held me around the waist as I shook. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective metal oven and saw exactly what I'd been afraid to see; a broken girl. I used to be so smart and pretty and confident; I remembered those days. I used to feel confident in my own skin; proud of my tan and slim weight and long legs. I used to use it to my advantage. I could have gotten anything I wanted if I wore the right dress and heels. Those days were long gone.

Now I was a thin and meek little girl, looking like a breath of wind could knock my waifish body over. My hair was constantly messy, and had long since lost that shiny platinum sheen so many girls had fawned over. My skin had lost the glow that had been attributed to seaside vacations and fake tans, and was now pale and sallow. I had cracked lips, deep bags under my eyes, and my cheekbones were so prominent they stuck out severely. I'd lost those curves I was so proud of; my hipbones and ribcage stuck out like the awkward bones of a baby bird. I always wore sweatshirts and jeans to hide the needle marks, I didn't like sunlight, and I couldn't remember the last time I paid attention in class.

But the worst part of all was that I couldn't stop—I was an addict. I hated what I had become, but my whole body ached to stay that way. I needed the release white powder could give me, even at the cost of my life.

"Look at me," I whispered. "I'm awful."

"No," Jeremy told me, and he gently turned me back around. His warm hands cupped my face. "You're not. You're beautiful."

"Don't lie to me," I told him. "You can say it."

"You know I think you're beautiful," he replied. "At least the Perrie Donovan I know is. The strong one."

"I think she died with Camila," I whispered. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. But I can't stop. It's the only time I feel human."

"Perrie, I can't keep doing this to you," he whispered. "I can't let you get high and pretend I don't care. I can't watch you become the junkie I've watched so many others become. You need to fight this."

"I don't have anything left to fight with," I told him. "I need it."

"No, you don't," Jeremy told me. "You need to fight. You may think it makes you human, but it's turning you into a monster. And I can't watch you destroy your life like this. I can't do this to you anymore."

"You're not doing anything to me," I told him. "It's my choice. For what it's worth, if I had to choose anyone to be high around, it's you."

"It's not worth much, but thanks, I guess. Just promise me you'll fight this?"

"I'll try," was the only thing I could promise him. "But only for you."

He leaned down, and I shut my eyes as he pressed a hard kiss to my forehead. He gently caressed my face and looked into my eyes, his thumbs swirling soothing circles into my cheeks. "We have to go."

I nodded. "Yeah. I guess we do. Let's do this."