prolouge to narrative

The development of a group identity is determined largely in part by the individual identities that comprise that group and through the experiences shared amongst those individuals. The group I hung with back in high school was initially drawn together through the similar personalities and interests we each had our solidarity was further bounded largely by the experiences we went through in eighth and ninth grade. During this time, these experiences were built upon the classical angst and curiosity inherent in most teenagers, in which drugs (amongst other things) were one of our outlets.
I had known who Dylan was back in middle school, but in ninth grade our mutual friends had lead us, almost inevitably to form a strong friendship with each other. In present memory I can recall Dylan and myself hoping the back wall of his parents house where we would meander through the desert towards some hidden spot behind the shelter of a sprawling mesquite tree or creosote bush. Crouching, I can watch him pull out some beat up, crusty looking tobacco pipe out of his sweatshirt pocket and gingerly load it up with a clumped nugget of weed. I remember the eye drops, and the spray cans of axe or old spice, and the paranoia I felt walking back into his house, hoping to God that his mom doesn’t get a whiff of any lingering potency.
However, this ephemeral period was not to last forever. By senior year our interests had gone eschew and drugs, which had ironically been one of the affinities that brought our group together, had divided us into two different groups. There was no bitterness between us, and there wasn’t a dramatic fight; in fact we occasionally still hung out with each other. But as I mentioned before, our interests had gone eschew and that had prevented us from regaining that strong bond we all once shared.
Dylan’s path was drugs, but it didn’t happen over night. It was in perennial with the sketchy "smoke sessions" behind his house, which then evolved to coke he bought from some dude named "G", sizzurp, meth, and finally heroin. And although our friendship was not as strong as it had been the four years prior, I can say that until the morning Dylan was found lying dead on his bedroom floor, myself as well as the rest of my friends knew about everything that he was doing. This is the story of our silence and inaction.