Your body was perfectly still; motionless on a downtown sidewalk on a bright, sunny day. I tried to get close enough to see, but not so close that I would interfere. You were surrounded by police and paramedics. I started to cry as I realized they had given up on you.
No longer a person, you were now only a body. One of them grabbed your corpse by the ankles and dragged you partially out of the doorway as the afternoon rays danced on your scarred, pale skin.
All of a sudden, the mood changed. Someone had enough reverence for your life to try and try yet again. The paddles weren't working. They couldn't find a vein.
More tears dripped from my face as I wondered who you were. Did anyone know where you were or that you were never coming back?
Then, finally, a line in your ankle hit and the persistent paramedic tried once more. Against all odds and across from a gathering crowd, you came back to life.
The first thing you did was hurl curse words, threats and insults at those who had just spent so much of themselves to bring you back from a fatal overdose.
"Bad H goin' around," warned one of the officers. Noticing my tears, he asked if I knew you.
"No," I replied. But in some ways, I do. I have seen your face around town. I have seen how quickly the sun can turn cold on an otherwise beautiful day.
The clouds parted for you that day, and you woke up.
You don't have to die again, ya know. And we're not your enemies. We love you and we want to see you healthy.