"Here, have a hit," she says. "It'll make things more fun." You shake your head, try to decline—try to be good. "Don't be a wuss! You're ruining the mood." Good girls don't do drugs, but you acquiesce. 1/

The smoke fills your lungs with fresh lemons and hot plastic, floods your mind with dizzy euphoria. Your throat burns. It hurts so much. 2/

With each cough the world stutters and skips. You're leaning against the table, trying to catch your breath, eyes vibrating. Drinking water, coughing, spilling it. Everyone laughing at you. Music playing in the background, conversations you can't understand. 3/

Sprawled out on the couch, her arm around you, her hand sliding up your thigh. Fingers touching, pressing, coaxing— Her fingers in your mouth, a pill slipping down your throat. You're too far away to struggle. This isn't what you wanted. 4/

Her voice in your ear—"yes, that's it, such a good girl"—fingers tangled in your hair, thrusting warmth filling your mouth. Is this what being good means? You can't remember… She seems so sure. 5/

Facedown on a mattress, her hands on your neck, cheek pressed against an old stain. Her weight on top of you, pressing into you— The world glows with each thrust, sparkles filling your eyes. It feels so good— The world breaks, and you see the thing beneath it. 6/

You're mindlessly babbling when she finally pulls out of you, begging, glossolalial prayers spilling from your lips as freely as drool. She doesn't bother saying anything to you as she puts her pants back on and leaves—you wouldn't be able to understand her anyway. 7/