Selkin® lets you die twelve times. That’s rumored, at least. Or, for now, no one has been strong enough to make it to thirteen. The two that tried didn’t survive, though we never knew them personally—just names in obituaries now. Few want to push it, this unlucky number. There are real results from this synthetic drug (if temporary death is a real result). Maybe it’s a side effect for something undiscovered. Maybe decades from now, we’ll see what Selkin® is really meant for, what Selkin® can really cure. For now, it’s the lowest high. Cammi is on nine. Jason, four. Lina is the only one wild enough to be on twelve already, and she keeps a thirteenth pill hidden in her sock drawer, tongues it on lonely nights, spits it out, rolls it up in tissue again. The eleventh took her too close to something, though she claims there was nothing really—black rooms, whispering voices. Angels? Demons? It’s hard to tell a difference. No one returns with real wisdom. There are no lessons to learn. Yet. No tunnels of light or lost loved ones waiting, waving. But we like the almost-gone to remind us that we’re still here. Some nights some try to stay longer, but each body metabolizes death differently. Some last seconds. Minutes, others. The longest was nearly an hour. But mere moments are longer than most others have ever seen, even if there’s nothing to see when we’re there. We laugh when we arrive again, then cry, trying to remember anything—but it fades quicker than a dream. Selkin® won’t let anyone keep much. Set and setting matter. Smile before you swallow, we say. What you’ll experience is already in you and death, we know, is such a state of mind. We advise each other to trip around loved ones. We say to only trust friends. We are all we have until death do us part. And even then we don’t part. We live to die on weekends on repeat. And when we come to, we need a little help to get to baseline. We hold each face so gently, softly slap each groggy cheek until we begin to blink, tears pooling in all our eyes—always bringing each other back from brinks. What else are friends for? What else is there to do but die and die again in all our open arms?
