It was a normal Saturday night for us. We were situated in the back bedroom of another flat in central Nottingham, while loud music pulsed through the whole building and shook the paper thin walls with every second thud – which was definitely louder than the first. It was just another party. Another party with stupid stuck up bohemian art students who beforehand, would have been talking about ridiculous French black and white films with no subtitles, which no normal person would have ever even heard of, let alone watched. Then there were the Gatecrashers – a group of about twenty of us who targeted these dull-fests, armed with alcohol and cigarettes. The group included me and Travis.

We’d been there an hour before we’d decided to go into the back bedroom. We’d succeeded in ruining their little get together and after a few beers and a couple of bottles of wine were distributed across the group, I was itching for a fix.

And there we were, in the box room, not particularly talking, just both of us staring at the drug. I tapped my feet impatiently, wanting to do my share of the lines. A minute had passed by where he just fiddled with the twenty pound note, which was rightfully mine. He just carried on rolling and unrolling it. I knew that it had been a minute because I’d watched the second hand do a full lap of the numbers on the clock. I was about to give up with him and snatch the note from his long and bony fingers. But at that moment, he sighed loudly – so that I could hear it over the loud music – rolled up the money, and lowered his head over the night stand and inhaled deeply, almost as if he’d done it several times before.

Once he’d finished, I eased the note from his fingers and did my own lines, after which, I collapsed back onto the bed, waiting for the effect to fully kick in. And when it did, I was pacing the room waiting for Travis to jump up, grab my hand and drag me into the living room to dance to the loud Drum ‘n’ Bass, which was relentless. But he didn’t. He just stayed leaning against the wall, with blood oozing from his nose and dripping down his cheek. Then he went limp, and slipped down the wall. And then, he began to convulse.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew something bad was happening. “Oh shit,” I spluttered to myself, and then burst out of the room to see Jimmy – my other best friend, and another one of the gatecrashers. I managed to choke out some half sentence about Travis convulsing. Jimmy dropped his plastic cup full of beer on the grey carpet, and dashed into the back room, somehow finding time to shoot me a look that screamed pure hatred.

Half an hour later, there were paramedics. They stood out of the crowd in their high visibility uniforms amongst the black turtle neck jumpers and berets. And they took Travis away while I hid in a corner with a Jack Daniels and Coke, too scared to look properly just in case I saw the ghost of my best friend as he panted heavily and was wrapped up in fleece blankets. Everybody was silent. The music had stopped, the conversation had died down and everyone stared, almost in disbelief.

It wasn’t much longer before people began to leave. Even if they didn’t know Travis, everybody seemed shaken up, and they were muttering about what could have happened. Me and Jimmy were soon walking through the urban wilderness of Nottingham not talking. There was just this ugly atmosphere and thick tension that seemed to be attracted to us, like a moth to a light. The cold October wind bit our faces fiercely as I hugged my jacket closer to my body, not daring to even cough.

It was a long while before Jimmy decided to talk to me.

“You’re a moron,” he muttered as he shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You were so idiotic to get Travis involved in your stupid little addiction,” he said, getting slightly louder. He wasn’t shouting. He was just using a loud, disappointed tone with me.
“He wanted to get involved,” I retorted.
“You’re still a moron, Elle.”
“Oh, Jesus. Thanks Jimmy. I really appreciate that,” I snapped as I rolled my eyes and carried on stamping through the streets.
“Don’t get sarcastic with me. You could have easily killed Travis by getting him involved. It’s one thing to risk your own life. It’s another thing to risk your best friends.”
“I didn’t force him to do anything. He risked his own life. He did it. Not me,” I growled.
“Whatever, Elle. Whatever.”

With that, I stamped off in front. I hated it when Jimmy somehow managed to irritate me by not really listening to what I had to say, and not listening to the truth. I hadn’t bullied Travis into doing anything. I hadn’t even suggested it to him. He found out about what I was doing and he wanted to get involved so desperately. It was him. I had nothing to feel guilty about, but there was still this gnawing sense of responsibility, eating away at my heart.