“Tara Kate,” I whispered into the pitch-black room. “Do you need anything before I leave for PT?”

Failing to hear my friend’s response, my hand drifted up to switch on the light. It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m., but obstacles strewn across the floor made navigating Tara Kate’s bedroom perilous. Before tapping her forehead to wake her up, which is like poking a hangry and hibernating grizzly, I anticipated stepping over colossal mountains of clothing, several pairs of shoes, and even a few empty water bottles. Hell, I wouldn’t even have been surprised to find Jimmy Hoffa buried underneath a pile of Legos I didn’t even know my friend possessed.

Instead of these things, my eyes zeroed in on Tara Kate’s corpse.

Because I dream of that day often enough, there are things I remember acutely and painfully. I remember the discoloration of her body, parts of her body pale, others purplish-red, a result of “livor mortis,” the pooling of blood in the lower portions of the body, dependent on position. I remember administering chest compressions on my friend’s lifeless form, a futile act performed per the 911 operator’s direction. I remember watching her leave the house in a bag. I remember crying myself to sleep that night while angrily clutching a rosary.

Tara Kate may or may not have committed suicide, but I don’t know. I know she was struggling with her own demons and I know she relied on more pharmaceuticals than the average 24-year-old woman. I know she and I had an argument the day prior, and our last words were spoken in anger and irritation. I know that I’ll never be able to make peace with her nor ever again perform an outstandingly drunken rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Although the exact cause of Tara Kate’s death is unknown to me, I have my suspicions. There was a point the knowledge could have been given me by her cousin, but I declined to know. Tara Kate, the woman who introduced herself as my “token lesbian friend” was gone, and that’s all I needed to know.

As mentioned, I have my suspicions and it’s those suspicions – and the positive memories – of my friend compelling me to be there for others, or at least wish for everyone to have a savior in their moments of despair. Not everyone will find that confidant and savior, and I’m fully aware that not everyone can or even wants to be saved. Having traveled down some cold and dark roads, I know despair. And because I’ve been there, I’ll never judge.

Tara Kate’s death may have resulted from something unavoidable, such as an unforeseen illness, but I fear otherwise. I shoulder so much guilt, feeling I could have prevented her departure. Because I know that not everyone can nor will be saved, I’m left with just wishes and hopes. I wish my friend were still alive. I wish that someone could have saved her. I hope her death was natural. I pray that she didn't suffer any physical pain.

I pray that she forgives me...