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“How did this happen? What has happened?”

A bright light shot through my door. The exterminator stomped in my

one-bedroom shipwreck, covered with a weird smell. I walked towards him, and
he passed through my body. The exterminator saw my helpless body lying on the
dirty floor and kneeled beside my body. He pushed and pulled but got no
response. He placed his hand on my neck but found no pulse.

“Can somebody help me?”
He called. “Someone passed away.”

It hit me. I overdosed 8 hours ago, and nobody realised. My parents, who were
never present, rushed through my doors. The people who once were my pals
were sobbing.

“He was so bright. He was so kind; I didn’t know he felt like this. I wish I were
there for him,” my friends said.

Those voices were drowning in me. Did they ever care? Regret was flowing
through me. I pounded around my apartment, looking at all the photos on my
walls, reminiscing. I kept a sketchbook and a pen to keep me company; I had
potential bright ideas but now? No one sees me, feels me or hears me. Is it going
to stay this way? I feel alone in this massive globe. Where will I go next?

I want to live.

Chatter surrounded me as my eyes slowly widened. Looking around the room
filled with familiar faces, I was appalled. I let out a sigh of relief as I scanned the
room. I felt warm arms envelope my body. That was the most comforting feeling I
have ever felt. A single tear rolled down my cheeks and fell on my lap. It made

me make a promise to myself that I would never do that again.

I was offered a second chance in life to use it to the fullest.

Did he relapse again?

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