An emotional retelling of the night someone spiked my drink at the club while finally making my peace with each element of the story
Jasmine Garcha (she/her) // Arts and Culture Editor
Cameron Skorulski (he/him) // Illustrator
To the memories I lost
I didn’t have a chance to know you before you were taken from me.
I have this fear of forgetting things. I forgot a lot that night, or the experiences never made it to my memory in the first place. I don’t remember going backstage with the drummer, but I remember his hands on me when I opened my eyes and asked where I was and what was happening. I don’t remember cutting my finger, but I remember seeing the blood on my phone screen when I tried to text my friend, Ross, and find him. I don’t remember walking out of the venue, but I remember being on the street. I don’t remember walking into the bar next door, but I remember sitting next to Ross, who wrapped two Band-Aids around my finger before trying to get me home. I remember seeing the bloodstains on my white shirt when I got there.
I remember not remembering. I remember opening my eyes in these places without the memory of walking there. I remember walking to places having forgotten where I was last, mere seconds ago.
Everything I need to remember in life is written down somewhere, or repeated thrice mentally in a desperate attempt to keep my memories sealed. You weren’t meant to be different; I didn’t mean to lose you. I wouldn’t have wanted to, but I wonder if you left me because you know something I don’t.
To the guy who was trusted to get me home
You told me you hadn’t driven that night, but you’d get me an Uber. I should have listened, but I was afraid of making you spend money. I was afraid in general. I was afraid of moving, of leaving the spot in which I stood, and so I was afraid to go home.
I was afraid when I felt your hands on me, although I couldn’t quite stand on my own otherwise. I was afraid when I got home and in the morning after waking, when I pieced together what had happened, and I remembered that feeling.
I regret meeting with you again and thinking that I could forget my fear.
To the person who spiked my drink
I don’t know you and I hopefully never will. You knew me, though, in some weird, twisted way. You knew I wasn’t in a large group, and you waited until we both walked away. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve stumbled across you unknowingly. I wonder if you hide in plain sight, lurking in my life without me ever noticing. You may never admit to it, and I may never know.
To the venue where I got drugged
Sometimes, I go back. And, sometimes, your floors haunt me. I wonder if my spilled blood lingers. I doubt you’re cleansed often enough.
I feel my own ghost walk through me when I enter the door. I see her walk to a table, on which I never set down my drink. I dance until I can’t feel my feet, and my gaze searches your perimeter for eyes that look as if they know me.
Sometimes, I look for your door through which I might have been led by that drummer. I still don’t know where I was when I opened my eyes, and I don’t remember getting there or what happened when I did.
To the girl who got roofied at a club downtown in the summer of 2023
Almost 20 years old and stupid during your first night out clubbing. Stupid enough to leave your drink unattended on the table while you used the washroom, then to continue drinking from it when you returned. You hear the horror stories, but you never think that it could be you.
I wish I’d taken those stories to heart. I wish I’d protected you better. I’m sorry that I didn’t.
I wish you wouldn’t blame yourself.
I’m sorry that it happened to you. It shouldn’t have happened at all.
To the night that somebody drugged me
You met me in my nightmares recently. I wonder if you remember. I wonder if the streets remember my stumble, if the universe has etched it into the sidewalk.
I wonder if my night was stamped into the stars, if you left an imprint. If the parts I forgot were remembered by the universe in a way that makes it matter. The worst thing you could do is not matter. Maybe it’s selfish and hypocritical, because I don’t even remember you that well myself, but I hope that somebody or something holds those memories for me. I hope the universe remembers you.