“Shhh,” I commanded, bending enough so I could see underneath the stall. So I could see the shoes I’d helped Bex pick out tonight underneath. They were laying at a weird angle. Something sank in my stomach, I shot straight up.
“Bex!” I pounded on the door urgently.
“Flower, tell me what’s going on,” Asher asked, his tone hard.
I ignored this, my stomach curdling at the silence beyond the door.
“Bex! Open the door, now,” I yelled, not caring that the other women in the stall were staring at me.
Again, nothing.
“Lily,” Asher repeated urgently.
“How do you pick a bathroom lock?” I asked him, staring at the door in desperation.
“Why do you want to know that? Are you okay?” his voice was alert.
“That’s not an answer,” I snapped with impatience, looking behind me for some help. I didn’t think the women behind me would be much help, considering they looked worse than I did. Ditto with anyone working in this bar, and even if they would help, I’d have to wade through the crowded dance floor.
“I’ll have to kick it in,” I whispered to myself.
“Jesus, kick what in? Where the fuck are you, Lily? Tell me so I can help,” Asher’s voice turned soft at the end, I could tell he was trying to mask the glimmer of panic in his voice.
I ignored him again, pushing at the door with my shoulder. It looked flimsy and moved slightly even with the small amount of pressure I was exerting. Maybe my laughable strength would be enough to get me in.
“Bex, I’m coming in,” I yelled again, hoping I wouldn’t give her a head injury if I did by some miracle get the door open.
The silence at the other side of the door gave me the strength I didn’t think I had. I slammed against the door with all my might, stumbling slightly as it gave way, swinging on its hinges. It took me a moment to focus on what I saw.
“Oh my God,” I whispered in horror. “No, no, no,” I chanted, kneeling beside Bex’s slumped body.
“Lily!” Asher shouted, but my phone tumbled out of my hand as my shaking fingers went to the needle at Bex’s arm.
“No. Bex, wake up,” I commanded, shaking her pale body with panic.
A thin film of sweat was covering her face, her lips tinged with blue.
“Someone call an ambulance,” I screamed at the crowd gathering behind me, my phone smashed on the floor, forgotten.
I clutched my best friend. “Please wake up, please be okay,” I chanted at her limp body.
I clutched the coffee cup, taking sips of the awful brew out of necessity more than anything else. I had been shocked sober at what I’d seen in that bathroom stall, at having to see paramedics struggle to revive what looked like the corpse of my friend.
“We’ve got a weak pulse,” had been the only thing that stopped me from collapsing into hysterics.
They let me ride in the ambulance with her, pushed to one side, watching in horror as they connected all sorts of things to Bex, mumbling words like “overdose” and “heroin.”
I stopped my pacing, staring down at the remains of my coffee, eyes blurring at the sides.
Heroin. Overdose.
They hadn’t told me anything, not since we had arrived, hours ago. Terror pulsed through me like a living thing. At the lack of news. At the smell of these sterile walls, ones I had promised myself I’d never see again. Ones that held ghosts and haunted my dreams. If these walls took another person from me, I didn’t know if I could stand it.
Heroin. Overdose.
I swallowed my tears. I didn’t even know. My best friend had been taking heroin, enough to be doing it in club toilets and I hadn’t noticed. So wrapped up in my own despair I hadn’t noticed Bex drowning in her own. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, so they say. Now I think back to those days where Bex had looked twitchy, dark circles under her already dark eyes, her frame skinnier than usual. The fact she always seemed to be on her last dollar, even though she barely bought anything apart from wine and clothes from goodwill.
I sank into a chair in the waiting room, putting my head in my hands.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I chanted to the floor beneath me.
“Rebecca Bennett?” a voice penetrated my sorrow.
I shot off the chair and rushed to an older man in a white coat, glancing over a chart in his hands.
“Is she okay?” I demanded, wanting to clutch his lapels but restraining myself.
He regarded me. I was a mess, I knew. The outfit I was wearing was intended for a club floor, not fluorescent lights and a hospital waiting room. Mascara smudged under my eyes, brought loose from tears. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what he thought of me. He just needed to tell me one thing.