A chubby, dark haired boy with warm brown eyes. His laugh could fill a room. His smile could brighten up the darkest of basements. Even on your worst day, he would make you laugh, as if there wasn’t a bad thing going on in the world. If you needed a ride, a shoulder to cry on, or a soft touch. He was there. Every time. Without question. He did not judge you for who you were in the past, where you’ve been, or what you’ve done. He cared only for who you were in the present and who you were working to be. A kind heart struggled to find home in a cruel world. The boy I met when we were fifteen years old was not the same man who left us at nineteen. Broken moments, peer influence and the ease of acquiring illicit as well as prescription drugs created an unfortunate opportunity for the young man.
The drugs were supposed to be for fun. An addition to the typical Friday night. Something to mellow him out. To calm him down. Make him relax. Make him feel better. To please his friends and fit in. Marijuana opened the door, the streets of Ogden filled the halls with all of its darkest treasures. Magic mushrooms. Cocaine. Lortabs. Xanax. Meth. Heroin. He experimented with many, always believing he had the upper hand. He was in control. His actions, his addiction was a choice, not a need.
Heroin became his personal favorite. A small black ball of poppy seed tar that sent him on a deep downward spiral. It locked onto him without delay and gave no sign of loosening its grasp on him. It cinched tighter to him and him to it. He was unaware of the noose he was tying around his own neck. The heroin was stronger than him, but he kept asking for more. He may have thought he was pushing the limits of his high, but he was pushing the limits of his life. He breached a threshold one cold winter evening. One he would not return from. He was the first in my life to be taken in such a way.
November 23rd. 2013. R.I.P Danny.