I return to the place where my adventure started and, fortunately, another little house party is bursting from the confines of the old home. Sex is in the air, thick and almost tangible, corrupting my eyes and my nose and my tongue. Love has been stomped to the ground, Cupid's blood being sipped in red solo cups as if to incorporate that stupid power we're all promised the flimsy heart has, yet nothing happens. We reach out to one another, believing that somehow we're stronger because we believe in second chances and Valentine's Day and love at first sight, but yet we're not invincible. We use each other as a comfort for this fact, a meaningless truth that we're all going to die someday and our lives mean nothing. I mean nothing, I am nothing.

I head upstairs, to the familiar little bathroom. I open the mirror. I find the familiar orange cylinder of pills.