1 ad·dict \ə-ˈdikt\ (transitive verb) to devote or surrender (oneself) to something habitually or obsessively

Let's get this straight, I'm not an addict. I may be a low life, possibly a failure, but never an addict. I'm in control of my own destiny, always. Funny, huh? How that word has so much meaning, bares so much weight. It's the only thing I would never let anyone call me. I guess that's why I'm here. Now. Floating. But, they want me to let myself fall. The only problem? I don't always land, and if I do, it's never on my feet.

"Skye?" I looked up. An instinct when one's name is called. Only, my name wasn't Skye. But it may as well be. Skye's the part of me that everyone knows or at least wants to know, except for him.

"Huh?" He walked slowly towards the curb where I was sitting. "I don't bite Christian." He smiled. His teeth weren't perfect and there was a hint of an overbite, but I didn't care. We all have our flaws.

"I missed you.' He whispered with one arm around my waist, the other tapping a Marlboro Light from the pack. I reached in my pocket and handed him a light.

"Yeah," I took my lighter back (he was struggling). "Rehab's a bitch." He nodded his head in agreement, though he had never been anywhere near a rehabilitation center. (that's not to say he didn't need to be there as well).

"Hmm," he said as he blew a ring of smoke from his lips, "I'd like divorce my parents." He laughed with dry humor.

"Nah," I reached for the cigarette, "The school sent me." He laughed as he passed it.

"Sucks." He left it at that. I inhaled deeply and let the rush of smoke enter my lungs. I didn't particularly like to smoke, it was just something to do when we were together. Now Chris on the other hand, could barely go fifteen minutes without a nicotine boost. I tapped the shortening bud on the concrete next where I was sitting.

"I though you quit." I smirked.

"I only smoke with you so why would I quit, it's not a habit." He shook his head and grabbed my wrist, cigarette and all. I stiffened at his touch and quickly withdrew my arm. I was too careless, I didn't realize my forearm was exposed.

"You know what I mean, Skye."

"Don't call me that Chris." I was hoping to change the subject.

"So rehab didn't help ?" I failed.

"Was it supposed to?" I smiled trying to make a joke of it. The mood was way too heavy. He reached for my arm again. This time slowly, as if he was silently asking permission. I stuck my arm out towards him grudgingly. He took it in his hands gratefully. He stroked it from the inside of my elbow to the tiny blue veins if my wrists.

"Does it hurt?" I shook my head. He preceded to press his lips lightly to my wrist. He traced the now healing spider web of scars that outlined every blue line. I closed my eyes as he worked his way up. I only opened them when I felt him pull away. His eyes were troubled.

"What's up?" I lifted my hand to stroke his hair.

"I'm just thinking." I wrapped my arms around his neck. I laid my head to rest it on his shoulder.

"Humor me." He didn't answer. He just simply placed his chin on the top of my head. The moment dragged on. Not in a bad way. The kind of dragging that you wished would never end. But, all good things come to an end. My mind began to drift. And the mood once again began to get heavy. Too heavy for me, it was almost suffocating. I felt so out of control, like this moment didn't belong to me.

"I'm an addict." It was a vocalization of what we both knew. He didn't move but spoke softly,

"You and me both." I felt so warm, so alive, so…

The moment slipped away

"Skye?" I shook my head struggling for consciousness.

"Christian?" I felt someone touch my shoulder from behind. Their hands were ice cold. Not at all like Christian's.

"Christian? Christian Alberta? Skye, you know he's dead." I lowered my head.

"No." I said simply.

"Christian Alberta killed himself over three months ago Skye, you know that." I smiled and the man whirled me around. He froze. I saw the look in his eye, the shock on his face. "What the — "

I was vaguely aware of the warm red liquid dripping. I now realized it was coming from me. I stopped to stare at the twin crimson gashes on my wrists. Top to bottom just like Chris taught me. I watched it flow even as the man started to scream for someone called 'nurse'. The edges of my vision began to blur.

"Rehab's a bitch." Those were the last words I ever said.