Last night an angel, enveloped in a radiant glow, appeared to me in a dream. Her face was smooth and beautiful, serenity etched into her expression. She smiled at me, her delicate denim eyes sparkling with pleasure.

“Do not blame yourself,” she told me in a voice that was tranquil and crystalline.

Then darkness engulfed her and her delicate skin became marred with bruises and discoloration. Her arms were lined with track marks and pierced by syringes. Her eyes betrayed a hunger, that of addiction, and her face was a mask of pain.

“Help me!” she screamed, a razor blade pinched between her fingers. “Help me!”

I awoke in a cold sweat, my mind numb with agony. I realized that I knew the face in my dream. Katie had been one of my best friends throughout my childhood.

I longed to pick up the phone and call her to reassure myself that she was all right. Then I realized that I could never talk to her again. It was never going to be all right

Last week Katie committed suicide by slashing her wrists with a razor blade. She had been battling heroin addiction for the last sixteen months, a losing battle that destroyed her self-esteem and confidence.

Her final act was to write a farewell note. She had become disillusioned with life; she believed it was no longer worth the ongoing battle. Suicide was the only way she could think of to finally win the battle. Then it would end immediately and permanently.

Her note left me wishing I could have done more for her. But I suppose I did everything in my power to prevent her death and the addiction which led to it.

I tried to convince her in the very beginning that heroin was evil. But she was persuaded by popular culture that the opiate was divine. She wanted to experience a greater human condition and tap into a new source of creativity.

Her role models were those artists who had done the same thing. Posters of addicts like Scott Wieland, William S. Burroughs, Shannon Hoon and Jerry Garcia hung in her room. She idolized their addiction and craved it for herself.

I tried to persuade her that this line of thinking was flawed. She considered it to be completely whole and sane. I told her heroin would lead to her death. I used Hoon as my example.

But she would always avoid the pain and loss heroin was known to create. She only focused on the new horizons and ideas.

About a year and a half ago, Katie disappeared. Her parents were immediately concerned and called the police. Two weeks later, they found her sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge, surrounded by fresh vomit and used needles covered with drying blood.

The police told us she had been shooting heroin. They charged her with possession of a tiny amount they had found in her pocket.

She went to court and a judge ordered her into a rehabilitation center. She completed the program successfully and was sent home. Within the week, she’d fallen off the wagon for the first time.

Since then she’d been into rehab at least a dozen times. Everytime her release from the program led to an ugly relapse. Then the overdoses started happening. Her parents feared for her health and booked her into another rehab center. She was stuck there for almost six months.

During this six month period I lost contact with her. I met the woman who is now my fiance‚, and we conceived a child. My addicted friend soon became the last thing on my mind. I stopped visiting her, and didn’t even give her a call after she was released.

I can’t help but to think that if I wouldn’t have abandoned her, she might still be alive. But I did abandon her and now I must live with the pain and guilt I feel. I’ve earned these horrible feelings and now I must earn forgiveness, if only I knew how.

Last week Katie’s parents called, it was the first time I’d talked to them in almost a year. At first, her mother was reluctant to tell me what had happened. But the tragic news was eventually told through a barrage of tears. I hung up the phone and my soul suddenly felt empty.

Katie’s father constantly tells me there was nothing more that I could have done. He assures me I did enough by trying to prevent her use and then by lending her my support through her numerous rehab stints. Katie’s parents told me I did good by their daughter. I disagree.

I wish I could have ended her addiction while saving her life. I wish I could have prevented her from ever sticking that first smack-filled needle into her arm. But I didn’t and I will always feel the pain and loss.

In the meantime, I will continue to crawl into bed every night hoping the nightmares stay away. And I’ll conjure her face into my mind and remember her beautiful smile and warm personality as I crawl into a ball and cry.

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Ben Jones is a sophomore in English from Des Moines.