After the ambulance and the police left, some people came to collect his body and they asked if we wanted to say goodbye. From what I could see, my housemate had what looked like one big bruise on the entire front side of his body. When you die, your blood stops pumping and settles into wherever gravity pulls it. He was very rigid, and as cold as the wooden floorboards he was laying face down on. Despite the bent spoons in the kitchen drawer and his occasionally disheveled appearance, I'd never known he was using. He'd died from a heroin overdose about 15 hours before I had found him. On my very first day, I got home and found my housemate's dead body on his bedroom floor. Several years later, I had successfully dealt with my future and landed a sweet job. Eventually, I came to this realisation that there is no changing the past and I've got a future to deal with. I was extremely stressed out though, I dropped out of my studies as a paramedic and have never gone back. On the exterior I think I took it pretty well, I comforted a lot of people and didn't act like a burden. I lost a lot of self control for a while. There was this pervading thought of "fuck it" in my mind, kind of like I deserved to drink and take whatever I wanted after that, because "fuck it". I felt hollow and reserved and angry, and I drank heavily afterwards. I was later told that the CPR I performed allowed my friend to stay alive on life support for several days, long enough for all of his family and friends to see him one last time and say goodbye. A friend told me to do CPR, and it snapped me back into reality. I felt really disoriented, like my brain hadn't caught up to what my eyes were seeing. I don't want to describe the details so much because he was a good friend, but I will say that I found the experience so shocking that apart from calling an ambulance, I had no idea what to do. The first time, I found him about 15 minutes after he died.
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