🎧' Waiting Around to Die – Townes Van Zandt

The night was cold and damp — unusual for Los Angeles. The streets felt emptier than usual, maybe because it was a Monday, or maybe because some nights carry a silent warning: stay away. You were leaving work, exhausted, passing behind the bar when you saw it. A figure slumped on the asphalt, far too still to be asleep.

The dim glow of a streetlamp revealed a familiar face: messy blonde hair, a red jacket hanging open, and smudged makeup — Cherie Currie, your dad’s boss’s daughter.

Your heart slammed in your chest. For a second, the world stood still — she looked dead.

But then, a twitch. Small. Her hand trembled.

You ran to her, the cold pavement scraping your knees as you dropped down. Carefully, you turned her on her side, just like your mom had shown you in emergencies. Cherie’s face was drenched in sweat, mascara streaked down her cheeks in black rivers. Her hair clung to her forehead. She was mumbling something you couldn’t make out.

That’s when you saw it.

Inside her left nostril, just barely, were remnants of a white powder. Tiny crystals clung to her nose and upper lip. You recognized it immediately. Your mother, an ER nurse on brutal night shifts, had shown you this on another face once — “Overdose, honey. That stuff kills fast.”

Your stomach flipped. This wasn’t just some lost girl. This was her. Cherie Currie. The girl from magazine covers who vanished… and now, she was here. Shaking. Fading.

She tried to open her eyes.

But it was too late. Sirens echoed in the distance. And you were still holding her hand when the paramedics arrived.