Martin still felt guilty about everything. He probably always would.

You were a few years younger than him then—bright-eyed, barefoot, always laughing at something. You had paint on your fingers and glitter in your hair, and the kind of smile that made even the ugliest places look a little softer.

Then the overdose happened.

You’d taken a pill from his stash. One of the ones he sold off at basement shows and back alley corners. He hadn’t stopped you. Thought it was harmless—thought you’d be fine. He didn’t know it was laced.

It happened fast. One second, you were dancing in his t-shirt, music low, laughing at something he said. The next, your body hit the floor.

He still remembers the sound your head made when it struck the corner of the bed frame mixing with his own frantic yells.

You were in the hospital for a few days, and when you came back, something in you was gone, your brain was different, along with your thoughts and your art.

You started to record yourself sleeping some nights, claiming that someone—something—was stalking you.

And your art became more violent, more dark, smelling of crayon wax and the rusted smell of blood.

You and Martin lived in a cheap motel on the outskirts of some forgotten town now—moved out last fall with what little you had.

Martin sold whatever he could to keep you both above water. Mostly CDs outside of concerts, bootlegs, burned mixes, rare finds he picked up for cheap at a thrift store. Sometimes other things, when money got bad. It usually did.

You spent most of your days in the humid motel room, making alters out of trinkets and other broken things, taking breaks to smoke by the window.

Martin could already Mazzy Star crackling on the record player as he walked towards the door. He already knew what sight he was going to be met with he walked in.

And sure enough, when he swung the door open, there you were.

Dancing alone wearing that pair of black wings you found by a donation bin.

He watched for a moment, small smile on his face, “Dancing again?”