Chapter 24

Angilee's life became a mixture of life on the street, where she sold her mouth and body, and the incredible heartache and loneliness of her life at the apartment which the heroin could blunt, its stupor enveloping her for hours, only to reemerge into her existence of repulsive and rejected whore. She barely ate now, the drug was what she lived for, nothing else. Except for brief lucid moments, the girl's trust funds were forgotten as Angilee became the slave of her savior/demon. What little money she earned went into her arm to escape the memories which were at one and the same time so sweet and so painful.

It was mid afternoon and Angilee was finally awake, having slept off her drug induced dreams. As she dragged herself to get dressed, she rarely bathed now, there was a knock at the door.

Through the crack she saw a face, familiar yet not at all recognizable. The man's eyes were sunken, his skin sickly jaundiced. He was so much thinner now than she had remembered, but the voice, though weak, was unmistakable.

"Angilee, is that you?"

"Jeremy? My God yes, come in!"

"I may need a little help," he said, wavering a bit as she slid back the bolt and opened the door. He leaned on her heavily as the two of them struggled to get him to the bed where he collapsed, exhausted.

She made some soup and fed him. At last he seemed strong enough to talk.

"Jeremy, what are you doing here? What's happened?"

"I have sought you out Angilee Carver... er Simmons, changing your name made it a lot harder to find you. I have come to you to help me die."

"What?" she asked incredulously.

"Aids," he said quietly, " stage three of one of the new drug resistant strains. I guess I wasn't as careful as I thought. Guys aren't supposed to get it from girls you know. Wouldn't you know I'd be one of the exceptions."

"Oh Jeremy..." she cried.

"Ah, ah, please save me the sorrow and pity. Mom and Dad wrote me off, so I sat down and thought, who would I most like to see one more time?"

She hugged him to her, but he began coughing uncontrollably, spitting up blood.

"Pneumonia," he finally managed to whisper in between coughing spells, "but let me look at you," he said lifting his arm weakly to pull back her hair.

She started to pull away, hide her face from him, but somehow could not. There was no revulsion in his eyes, not even the pity which was somehow worse, only acceptance.

"Looks like life has dealt us both an unlucky hand," he said.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Jeremy."

"Is it Angilee? For you know I have come here to die in your arms."

"You always were the romantic."

"And you the lady who wanted so to experience the new and exciting. Have you, Angilee?"

"A lot was new and yes, exciting, but we both seem to have paid the price," she replied, looking into his eyes.

"Ah, yes the piper who must be paid. May I stay Angilee?"

"Of course," she answered.

He started to say something else, but was racked with coughing and, weakened, drifted off to sleep.

Angilee undressed him and got him under the covers. When she was convinced he was sleeping soundly, she silently got out her kit and felt the pain drift away as her nightly companion, who never failed her, oozed into her veins.

For the next two weeks Angilee cared for Jeremy, staying lucid enough to feed and bathe him, but as his condition worsened, she felt helpless and with the helplessness came depression and with the depression, her needle and powder called upon even more often.

They talked whenever he had the strength and she, clear headed enough. He would describe their trysts and she would smile. Sometimes he would talk until they both drifted off to sleep in mid sentence.