Sixteen says indignantly that she hasn’t taken pills in a month.
Since she got caught, she means.
Oxy was her favorite. I never tried Oxy, but I used to love heroin more than my own dreams.
There’s darkness beneath the glamour, I warn her, but her ears are closed.
What I point out: addiction dulls brightness, makes ideas go nowhere, splices generosity with blinding selfishness, makes a person betray themselves so they’re left with no one to trust.
What I say: “I’ve never seen anybody get out whole.”
“Not you, though,” she shakes her head like it’s the only true thing in the world. “You’re the best person I know. You kept your brightness.”
No, daughter. No.