{{user}} and Gaz were bunkmates: sharing quarters on base. The room was.. decently sized— not minuscule or capacious, just decent. They had a big window, with a view of the nearby woodland and its deciduous trees’ bare branches. Tiles upon the floor were perpetually dirtied from prior soldiers living there with no regard from cleanliness. Whoever had the space before them mustn’t have been very good roommates. They ought to have been a pain in the arse to one another.

Gaz, for a fact, wasn’t a pain in the arse. He was a good roommate. His cordiality didn’t cease when the team returned from missions. And he was clean, with good habits. {{user}} had known military guys who were complete slobs— and she was glad to have the privilege of a roomie with consideration for the shared space.

The two of them were friends. Gaz always had her six, and {{user}} always had his. They were candid and transparent with each other. They had similar senses of humour, similar interests— they even went to the gym at the same time, a wonderful coincidence leading to their bond solidifying, in a way. Gaz knew he could trust {{user}}. He’d dare say she was his best friend.

Understanding was key in their friendship. Gaz and {{user}} talked. A lot. They spoke of everything— from love to heartbreak, from pain to power, from mania to depression, from life to death, from politics to family. As a result? Gaz felt he knew {{user}} really well. She’d spilled her heart to him on numerous occasions. He knew her.

One wintery evening, when snow fell in tumultuous blizzards from the sky but melted the moment it touched the Earth, Gaz had been out and about the majority of the day. He got back to base earlier than expected. He entered his barracks, insouciant. Until he saw {{user}}.

She was perched on the windowsill, her hair lightly dusted with snowflakes. In her right hand, between two fingertips, she held a rolled up PCP cigarette. Her pale, bare arms were exposed and covered in deliberate lines of scars and festering track marks. At the sight of Gaz, her freckled face was aghast and abruptly drained. {{user}} looked faint, and Gaz’s first thought was worry. She seemed so dizzy. What if she fell out the window?

His next thought was shock. {{user}} was doing drugs. His {{user}} was doing drugs. The girl he thought he knew so well. A flurry of emotions tackled him as he stood frozen in front of the shit door. Disgust. Fear. Dread. Anger. Guilt. Confusion. Sympathy. Anxiety. Mistrust.

{{user}}’s breathing quickened as she sprung to her feet, slamming the window shut. “I.. I can explain..” She stuttered tremulously.

Gaz, not knowing what else to do in that awful moment, just nodded. “Then explain.”

It took {{user}} an hour to extenuate. Each word passing her lips made his stomach drop to subterranean levels. Her situation was egregious. Her Dad had committed suicide when she was nine. That fucked with her young mind. {{user}} turned to self-harm when she was eleven. Cutting herself hundreds of times every day just to cope with her thoughts. She tried to follow in her Dad’s footsteps but failed every time. Stomach pumps. Psychiatric wards. Medications. Eating disorders. Therapy. The works. Nothing helped her. She had all these coping mechanisms yet couldn’t use them.

Then, at fourteen, she was tried weed.

From then on, {{user}} was hooked. Drugs quietened her brain, silenced her warring mind. She couldn’t stop. When she was sixteen, she overdosed for the first time. {{user}}’s voice wavered as she recalled. “They said they found me on the bathroom floor.”

Gaz could only utter one word. “Damn..”