Jason Loves Cory

Bjorn Olaf Ragnar Nilsson sacrificed his life to help Cory Horvat because he loved her.

I visited them a week before he drank Cory's methadone with wine, and swallowed his whole bottle of epilepsy medication. On my last visit, Bjorn, who Cory had renamed Jason, led me out to the garage on the back lane, and gave me a two-pound bag of brass fittings and some hand tools that he said he wouldn't be needing anymore.

"She's not going to make it," he said. "You just can't survive that kind of pain. You should see her at night. Up all night in the bathroom. Bloody colitis or something. She just screams half the night. She's gonna die. She knows it. I can't do nothing else. I'm just too fucking tired. Christ! Have you seen her incision lately? Now it's oozing again. Poor little Cory. God. I can't believe it. Fucking hepatitis B, cirrhosis; her liver's completely shot."

Bjorn cried. He sat down on a pile of Cory's possessions, stuff she had collected in 10 years of diving in dumpsters and scouring back alleys, which was just about her favourite activity, after the adventure of tracking down her daily supply of white wine, and cocaine or heroin —"up" or "down" the street addicts called them.

Cory called from the rickety back porch, "You guys got secrets, eh? Or you just turning queer on me? Good timing."

"Can you believe that?" I said. "Same old Cory."

Bjorn said, "I think she's been sneaking out in the middle of night, getting hard stuff. Nothing I can do about it. She's just got too much pain, man. Nothing else works anymore. Can't really blame her. It's a painkiller, a fucking painkiller. Some people need painkillers."

"I know." I said.

"Maybe we should have left her in the Granville Hotel."

"I've been thinking about that, too," I said.

"At least she had a life," he said. "Fucking cockroaches and a foot of garbage in her room, but a life anyway."

"That's right," I said.

"Until they fucking banned her. Can you believe they actually did that? They should come suffer with her. Fucking bastards. All this crap to protect the drug industry. Fuck! Jesus Christ being nailed to a cross was a walk in the park compared to what she's had to put up with."

"I know," I said.

"Well, I can't do nothing else. I lost my job, my driver's licence... I'm getting these goddamned seizures every couple of days. Doctor says it's from being exhausted. She's up all night long, pacing back and forth from room to room, running the shower for hours. I can't figure that one out."

"Yeah, I know. She did the same thing at my place."

"So why does she do that?"

"She asked me never to tell anyone," I whispered. "but, actually, she does it drown out the voices in her head."

"Really, eh?" Bjorn said. "Well, you can forget the methadone clinic. She'll never make it there again."

Cory appeared in the doorway, balancing on one crutch. "You guys divvying up my stuff already, eh?" she said. "I ain't dead yet."

It was 6:45 on Halloween night, 1995.

Cory was talking to me on the telephone.

"This guy's not waking up," she said.

"What do you mean, not waking up?"

"I'm lifting up his arm and it just falls back down."

"Did you call 911?"

"I called you first."

"Hang up," I said.

I phoned 911. "I think someone might have died at 4812 East Georgia in North Burnaby," I said to the operator.

"Is there someone there we can talk to?"

"Yes," I said. "Cory Horvat."

"And what's your name."

"Truman Green."

"And who do you think might have died?"

"Bjorn Nilsson."

"And why do you think that?"

"His friend just phoned and said she couldn't wake him up."

"We'll be right over there."

When I came into the living room of Cory and Bjorn's rented East Georgia bungalow I had to step over Bjorn's legs to get out of the way of the paramedics who were pumping oxygen into his lungs. It was soon obvious that he was dead. There was absolutely no sign of any response.

Firecrackers were exploding on the front lawn. Some little kids in Halloween costumes peered through the open front doorway.

The young cop who stood in the living room said, "Not tonight kids. This is not a good night here."

Cory sat dazed in the kitchen. Then she came into the living room, knelt down by Bjorn and caressed his hand and forearm.

"He was a very good man," she said. "He tried to help me. He loved me."

Truman Green is a Surrey writer who misses his friends Jason and Cory and wants to keep their memory alive.