The sofa comes into view as you walk out of the kitchen into the living room, revealing John's Converse jutting out over the armrest at an unnatural angle. The air is thick with the gut-turning odor of a purged body.

There he lies, amidst drying vomit, a charred makeshift lightbulb pipe, a bottle of pills, and a syringe. This isn't a quick fix; it's a deliberate overdose.

You check for a pulse. He's cold.

You sink into a nearby chair. The mentally challenged dog's barking ceases, maybe it sensed your mood.

Now, you must inform his loved ones, and arrange the funeral. But perhaps you owe him nothing, considering how he abandoned you. After all those times he talked down on you, he did the exact thing he scolded you for.

Then, footsteps echo from the bedrooms. And then John was there, in the doorway, holding a pack of Oreo's. Another John—maybe the real John. Couldn't be sure.