Today, I got ice cream with a stranger. (No, not a stranger in the traditional sense.)

I looked at him across my Oreo-sprinkled sundae.

“You look like hell.” I’ve never been one to lie.

He looked me in the eye, while pulling something out of his acid-wash jeans.

“Haven’t been home all night, Sid.”

He pushed a used blunt across the table.

“That it?”

“No, that’s not it. There was acid too.”

I tried to mask my surprise. I tilted my head, taking in his pallid face once again. And I saw things I hadn’t seen before. There was a deadness in his eyes, hinting at inhumanity. Here, I thought to myself, is another kid that’s gotten their ass handed to them. Life’s a real b****. I would’ve asked him why he was doing this to himself, but I already knew the answer: There was nothing else left for him to do.

A few weeks ago, Paul called me up. (First time in a year, I believe.) He asked me if it was a bad time to talk, and it was. I said, “No” anyways, because that’s what you do. He told me that it had gotten worse since I’d left. His mom hit him with a beer bottle the other night, and that there were shards left in his forehead above his left eyebrow. He thought about suicide when his mom stumbled off with the broken bottle, he thought about suicide when he took out the trash this morning, and he thought about suicide before he thought of calling me.

So we were having ice cream. And I was feeling like a liar, because I really didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be his salvation and his hand to hold. I couldn’t breathe when I thought of it all. When we stood to leave, I snatched his blunt and stuffed it in my pocket. I knew that it didn’t matter; he would keep hurting himself. But I thought that just for a moment, perhaps I could stall the cycle. At least, until the next blunt.