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Fucked-up Nightmare | Tom Kaulitz, Engels

Every single fucking inch of her was perfection. From the way that her dark hair blew in the evening breeze to the way that she would walk around my apartment with such attitude from the time I first took her home, she came into my life and fucked it up. It all started so simply and so innocently in comparison to later events, I fucked her half an hour after I met her, and she promised me that she would never enjoy being fucked by other guys because I was the best she was ever gonna have.

She was the best I was ever gonna have, but I didn’t know it yet.

We ended up fucking on the kitchen counter, drinking shots of gin and groping each other.

But I remember, weeks later, the first time I lit up a joint in front of her, she sat on my lap on the balcony, her lace-covered breasts inches from my face, and asked me in that little sexy breathy voice of hers, what I was doing.
And I told her after blowing the smoke in her face and sticking another joint in her mouth that it was okay to join in.

Everyone did weed from time to time.

Even Bill did, and unlike me, he was a saint.

In retrospect, I should have left it there, but everything seemed better when I was high, and she found that out pretty quickly. Things moved quickly with us, and although I never once called her my girlfriend, that’s what she was to me. Within weeks, she’d gone from graduating high school and being weeks away from getting a college education and starting her life to snorting cocaine with Tom Kaulitz off of a glass coffee table with rolled-up $100 notes. She was such a mess, and it was like every night, when the high and the chaos in my brain finally settled down a little, I would hold her head in my hands, listening to her sobs and cries, about how worthless she was, and how much of a disappointment to her parents she was. We would always end up having sex, but that’s just the way it was. We used to go out on a nightly basis, hitting up the new underground clubs in town and then more often than not, get arrested for public indecency, drink driving or aggressive behaviour before we bailed ourselves out, the alcohol and the pills still in our systems. We’d been to Vegas, partied like rockstars and partied with the best. I knew that I was showing her a good time, because she would always thank me for taking her in after she left her parents house and showing her what real life was supposed to be like, what fun really was.

And then came the downfall. We would arrive to places so strung out on heroin that we could barely walk, speak or move, and she would be pictured falling out of a cab by the paparazzi, and they always found those fucking zoom-ins to see the marks on her arm where she’d injected herself, finding her lack of underwear and various wardrobe malfunctions. Needless to say, she had to block her parents’ calls like crazy over the next couple days. All of the time in the limelight, in my limelight, was destroying her, and I didn’t see the signs of her wearing down.

Parties after parties after parties. Orgies with sluts, doing meth, smashing up hotel rooms, fucking all night, watching her take several negative pregnancy tests, fucking her again, and the cycle went on and on and on.

But it all changed that night.

I’d come home after a shitty day, and all I needed was a couple of hits to make it all better. She lay on the bed, passed out, and I woke her up, and she still seemed out of sorts, as usual. Lately, she’d been seriously out of it, and she’d been crying far more than usual, sleeping all day instead of going out and picking stuff up for me, but I didn’t really think much of it, as long as she kept her side of the bed warm at night, it was okay to me. But deep inside, whenever I looked at her, I felt something, and as cliche as it sounded, I felt something that I’d never felt before. It was scary and a high in itself, and I vowed to stop for her. But for some reason, I forgot, and we sparked up joints on the balcony, looking out on the Los Angeles skyline together. I will never forget what I did to her.

“Just go back in the room and shoot up, I’ll be there soon.” I kissed her on the forehead and then heard the sliding doors close behind me.

I felt my chest tighten and my throat close up, and I closed my eyes, but all I could see was what happened next.

It had taken me ten minutes to finish my joint and compose myself before I opened the door, and found her laying on the floor, needle sticking out of her arm, her eyes closed and a half-smile on her face, saliva pooling on the carpet. She was blue, and stiff. Totally devoid of life. I was far too scared to run over to her, I instead reached for my cellphone and dialled 911, my heart pounding as I explained what had happened as best as I could. My voice was shaking, yet the weed had given me a feeling like I wasn’t alive, I was having an out of body experience when the paramedics pronounced her dead at the scene, simply ruled as a heroin overdose, and took her away in a black body bag.

I didn’t feel anything when I shot up anymore.

I showed up to her funeral sober as the day I was born, and my joints were frozen, the numbness that I usually had was worse than ever. I sat at her graveside overnight, praying to whatever god there was to wake me up from this fucked-up nightmare and bring back the girl that I loved so much back to me.

My probation and fines felt like nothing, being in possession of illegal drugs was just a burden, so I dropped it.

And I sat on the balcony, and in a few hours, it would be September, but my watch offered me no solace. So I climbed over the bannister, only holding onto the railings behind me, and looked down at the busy city below, the people were merely specks of dirt, and the cars simply ants scurrying around.

And all I could see was her, her face in my head.

She had so much to live for, and I didn’t.

So I let go and let myself fall.

And before I hit the bottom, I realised that it was the happiest I’d been since I last saw her face.

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