I'll never forget the smell of death. It was 12 o'clock on a Sunday morning, a time when most people are getting out of church. I had come home after a night at the recording studio, and I remember the sound of the shower running. I thought about how good it would feel to climb in with her, to feel the warmth of that water after a long night of work.

When I walked into the bathroom, steam was everywhere and as I got closer I saw that she wasn't taking a shower at all. She was slumped in the corner of the shower with a needle in her arm and blood running down the drain. Her eyes were open and unseeing, lips parted and her skin was this horrible grey color. I wanted rip out my hair, to break everything that I saw. I wanted to know who was responsible for this, who would give her a drug like this when she used to be so frightened of anything at all toxic.

The police filed it away as just another overdose, another girl too young to know how to handle fame and the temptations that went along with it. They looked at me, a man ten years her senior, with complete disgust. I should have known how to stop it, but in their eyes I was the one who had caused it in the first place.