It had been so long since Robbie responded to you.
The drugs had taken over his mind. He would not speak, barely move, and did not bother to glance at you. He would just sit by the window and watch the cars drive outside. You loved your roommate Robbie dearly, accepted all his life choices, did everything to clean and care for him now that he was on drugs, but his unwillingness to reciprocate your affections had saddened you.
He sat by the window, as he did every day, with glazed eyes. His head laid on the couch armchair lazily. The gentle rise and fall of his body, as well as the occasional blinking, were the only indications that he was still alive. You sighed and sat down on the other couch, turning on the television.
He did not turn his head. He merely groaned and shifted his body a bit, stretching. A grumble of hunger could be heard from his stomach.
"You hungry?" You ask, walking over to him. You patted him on the side but, as usual, did not respond. This reaction was expected, but it still jarred you. You shook him a bit too forcefully and he swatted out at you. You backed your hand away in shock and slight disgust, and walked to the kitchen.
Some salmon was defrosting on the counter. His favourite. You started making the meal for him, hoping the smell would call him over to the kitchen. Before the drugs, he would hug you and kiss you in thanks of making him the food. The poor guy could never cook, but that never bothered you. You did it out of the kindness of your heart.
After awhile of cooking, a crash reverberated from the living room. You ran out to see Robbie, laying on the ground beside the coffee table. A vase had been knocked over and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. He made a groaning sound and shifted off of some glass.
"Oh my God," you grumbled. You picked up Robbie with a bit of effort and laid him back down on the couch, and went to clean up the glass.
As you cleaned, you watched Robbie sit and lounge silently. No apologies, no saying hello, nothing. Angrily you tossed handfuls of glass into the garbage and grabbed the vacuum. Once the vacuum started, Robbie jumped off the couch and ran off to his room. Whether it was out of guilt or drug-induced sensitivity to the whirring, you didn't know.
It took Robbie awhile to come to dinner. The salmon was already cold when he ambled into the room, but he paid no mind as he ate the food sloppily. His food dribbled down his front and got all over his face. You shook your head as he licked his hands clean.
"Disgusting," you mumbled as you wet a towel and cleaned his hands for him. As usual, he didn't utter even a sound of thanks. You picked up his plate of salmon and your empty plate, scraped the fish off his plate, and put them both in the sink to wash later. You had other problems to attend to.
Days later, Robbie smelled of smoke, fish, and drugs, and you couldn't stand it.
"You need a bath, Rob," you said to him. He looked up at you from his usual spot on the couch, blinked, and laid his head back down. "Come on."
He didn't budge. You walked over to him and tried to pick him up, but he thrashed and kicked out at you. You yelled and gave up. You now smelled like him and went to take a bath yourself.
As you bathed, you contemplated calling the doctor to see if Robbie should get help, but determined that it might not really be ideal. The two of you could get in trouble. Robbie wasn't hurting anyone but you, and you decided that you should try to care less about him. It wouldn't hurt you anymore. He could handle himself.
Robbie was a mess. His hair was messy and tangled, and he gained quite a bit of weight. He could barely move now, and you had to bring him his food. His only exercise was making his way over to the bathroom every so often and back over to the couch, where he slept.
You leaned against the door frame of the area between the living room and the kitchen of the apartment. You took out your phone and searched up some ways that he could sober up. The easiest solution was to simply deny him access to the drug. Stopping him cold-turkey would have some serious problems, but it was better than having to shell out thousands of dollars to put him in some sort of rehab.
As you searched, you didn't notice Robbie sneak away. Only the sound of him rubbing against a wall on his way to his room alerted you to his change of position. You followed him to see him digging into the bag of drugs.
"No!" You yelled, running over. You tackled him and tried to pry his hands off the bag as he thrashed about. "I'm doing this because I love you," you said desperately.
He turned and scratched you across the face in a pitiful attempt to deter you from taking away his stash. You felt blood drip down your wounded cheek. He screamed and yowled and rolled out of your grip, but the adrenaline and rage overtook you. You got up and snatched the bag straight out of his hands. Robbie was quivering and backed up against the wall of his room, hissing at you and crying.
"Bad kitty," you cried, grabbing a spray bottle of water and spritzing it at him. "No more catnip for you!"