Too many Ativan.  A few too many Ativan.  And the mood changes so suddenly.  The atmosphere alters.  Everything stills.
   
    The hum of the fan.  The pictures on the television.  The smell of the burgers Her Mother is cooking.

    Everything stills.

    And she asks, am I going to die?

    Am I going to die?

    No, I say.  And I feel I’ve disappointed her somehow.  I feel as though I’ve delivered terrible news.  Tragic news.  Her shoulders slouch and her head hangs low.

    After She’s nodded off from her drug induced haze I speak to Her Mother for hours.

    We stand in the kitchen and smoke black cherry flavored cigarettes and talk and talk.  Statistically speaking, you two won’t make it, she tells me.

    I tell her I know.  I know.

    But I still go back upstairs to lay down next to Her.  To watch Her sleep.  To be there.