I swallow the hard lump in my throat, forcing it down to the pit of my stomach with the rest of the pain. I don’t know if I’ve even processed it all just yet. That one of my best friends is being convicted of killing the other.
“Melody?”
The nurse’s voice pulls me out of my dark thoughts. I glance up at her.
“Did you hear me? I said that in case of an emergency, special communications can be made. Someone can contact your friend for a specific reason, if need be.” She smiles. “But just so you know, you can send them a letter. Most patients get therapeutic benefits out of writing letters…writing their thoughts down.” She smiles wanly again. Like she’s just imbued me with some great wisdom.
I smile wide, grudgingly curling my fingers into a tight ball.
Great. Snail mail to the rescue. By the time I get it written and then mailed, it’ll probably arrive just in time for my release. How the hell is that therapeutic?
“Okay. You’re all ready.” She leaps from her chair, excitement speeding her steps toward the door, like we’re two kids entering an amusement park. Maybe we are—the mad house.
She waves me along. “Just in time for your first meeting.”
A half-laugh, half-sob escapes my mouth in a huff. “Joy.”
Boone
Starve, and be redeemed
THE CRAVINGS DON’T EVER stop. They get easier, with time, and distance—but they’re always there. Festering under your skin. Clawing at the walls of your brain, like sharp little nails made of razorblades. They seek the one weak spot where they can slice through and hit you hard with an extra dose of want.
And committing yourself to talking in front of twenty or so addicts once a week…? Yeah, that doesn’t help. It just brings the cravings on harder. But once you get through it, once you step down from the front of the room, having faced your demons and won all over again, it gives you just enough strength to fight them for another day.
That’s why I come to Stoney Creek every Wednesday at six p.m. and talk about my shit.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I survey the room. A lot of new faces. But mostly everyone who was here last week is back, minus the few who couldn’t hack it. The ones who break rules and get violated just so they can get booted out and back to their fix.
I don’t blame them; I used to be one of them. Hell, still am, technically.
You never stop being an addict.
“Boone, are you ready?”
I glance over at Denise and nod. “Yeah. Usual spill?” I raise my eyebrows. My story doesn’t change, but I’m messing with her. Maybe I’ll throw in something new this time to change it up.
She tilts her head. “It’s a great story, Boone. You tell it well.” Placing a delicate hand on my shoulder, she looks up at me and smiles. “Honesty is the best defense.”
Right. Honesty. The having to own your own dirty bullshit in order to overcome and kick the bad habits. I know the drill by heart. Maybe one day, I’ll even give it a try.
Not likely.
I bend at the waist, stretching out my recently bruised muscles, and wince. Straight home for a soak after this.
Stepping out of her personal space, I say, “I know. Okay, let’s do this.”
I follow behind Denise as she steps to the front of the room and begins her introduction. “Thank you for joining us this evening for our special guest speakers. Some of you have already met our first speaker, and though it’s not a requirement to attend, many of our residents glean some enlightenment…”
Her soft voice fades into the background of my mind as I prepare my speech. No matter how many times I’ve done this, I still get nervous. By my count: 14. Fourteen weeks since I was released from this very place only to return. It’s my own personal defense—to make sure I’m never committed again. Here by my choice, no one else’s.
I can only assume those who’ve heard my story before and who choose to come again, do so out of sheer boredom. There’s not much else to do at Stoney, so getting out of your room, out of your own head, for thirty minutes beats staring at bare white walls.
Denise finishes with, “Your speaker tonight, Boone Randall.” She looks at me and gives an acknowledging nod. “Thank you for speaking with us, Boone.” She begins to clap, and slowly, the rest of the room takes up the light applause. It pulses in my gut as I give a tight-lipped smile and move to the front.
The initial reaction is always the same. Curious stares. Close inspections. Hiked eyebrows. Doubt that I’m actually a recovered drug addict.
Sinking my hands into my jean pockets, I bow out my forearms, shrugging my shoulders forward. In a “yeah, I know I look like a fraud” kind of gesture. An older, rough-looking woman sitting in the first row gives me an appraising once over. Openly checking out the tats covering my forearms, my stretched ears and died white-blond spikes. But I know what she’s really searching for.
Here’s a trick, though: tats cover track marks pretty damn well. You have to look closer than that, lady, to find them.
“Hi.” This is my brilliant intro. I’m a man of few words despite my practiced speech-giving, and it works well for me. I keep it short. Direct. Can’t have too much shit fly out of your mouth when it’s not open very long. “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right. I’m completely full of shit for standing up here, trying to tell you all about my miraculous recovery. One that, if you work just as hard at yourself, you can achieve, too.”
Silence, and a few grunts. Expected.
“But,” I say, switching my stance from laid back to noncommittal, “you can’t. You’ll never achieve full recovery. It’s a load of crap counselors feed you to mark some steps off in their agenda books and feel they’ve done everything possible for their patients.”
While I let this reality absorb, I take a breath, get ready to dive into my story. And a pink bandana snags my attention. The girl wearing it as a head piece over her burgundy and black streaked hair completely makes me forget my place. Her dark eyes stare right through me, and her gorgeous yet hard-as-nails face makes the words stick in my throat.
“I, ah…” Furrowing my brow, I blink, trying to force my gaze away from hers. One side of her knowing mouth quirks up; she’s made me. Dammit. “Fuck, where was I?”
This gets real laughs, and the chick actually full-on smiles. It does something to my insides. Bolstered with her approval, I say, “Recovery. It’s an ugly road that no addict ever reaches the end of. An ongoing battle never conquered.” Quickly glimpsing the bandana chick, I note her missing smile. I’ve already lost her. “So what’s the point? Why would anyone want this struggle if there’s never a finish line?”
It’s a rhetorical question. No one ever answers. But today, my bandana girl is the first.
“I don’t know, Daniel Boone, why don’t you tell us?”
My gut drops to my boots. I’m caught off guard while the room laughs, but only for a moment. What can I say? I like a challenge. Though that Daniel Boone line nearly leveled me. Good one.
I give her a curt nod. “I’m about to, Rizzo.” Her sneer freezes on her face. Mentally stashing that for later, I press on. “We choose to struggle because the alternative is worse. Shared, nasty needles riddled with disease. Waking up in strange places, forgetting and regretting what we did the night before.” I tick off on my fingers as I go. “Cheap, lame sex bought and paid for in a stupor…and you know some of you can’t deny that.”
The guys chuckle, earning glares from the women. But it’s a good icebreaker, regardless of the fact that it’s true—sadly. From here on, I have half of their attention. Not too bad.
Since bandana girl has thrown me off my game, I decide to stick to the usual shtick. Keeping it on point. The story of a boy who grew up watching his parents use, who witnessed his mother die from an overdose. Who nearly lost his own life to drugs—but who overcame it all.
As I come to the close of my speech, my gaze drifts back to her. I’ve purposely kept my eyes off her so I could get
through my talk without the judging look on her face—like she’s seeing right through me—making me stumble. Only now, there’s no judgment, just disdain. Or maybe that’s her look for long endured boredom.
I cough and say, “Thanks for listening. I know most of you had much better things to do”—laughs—“so yeah. This is Daniel Boone, signing out.” The room claps, and I head to the side where Denise has been lingering.
“Thanks, Boone. And well played on how you handled our newest resident.” She glances to where the chick is still seated. “She’s a tough case, but maybe you reached her a little.”
I seriously doubt it, but I nod. “What’s her story?”
Her lips pull into a frown and she shakes her head. Her gray hair falls loose from her pony tail. “You know I can’t discuss a patient—”
I hold up my hand. “I know the deal. I just meant…” I look back for the girl, but she’s gone. “Nothing. She just seems really…angry.” And beautiful. And startling, though she probably hears that enough, and doesn’t care to hear it from me.
“You can try talking with Melody,” Denise says, gaining my full attention. “It couldn’t hurt.”
Melody. That name doesn’t match the tough girl who tripped me up at all. “All right. Yeah, maybe.” I give Denise a smile and then say, “Same time next week?”
“Of course. Take care, Boone.” She pats my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then heads off toward the staff members circling the refreshment table.
Now I’m faced with a choice: track down glaring, snarling, bandana chick, or talk to the few stragglers who always hang around afterward to chat. Or, I could slip out and leave. Go back to my empty apartment and flip through channels. Sober. Alone.
Sucking in a breath, I plant my back against the wall. Like it’s the only steady thing keeping me upright. I’ve yet to try the last steps of my treatment. One of the biggest ones for me: making new friends. Finding new hobbies, lifestyle, etcetera. Going it alone has worked so far.
But it damn sure hasn’t been easy. Living in the same city your whole life, where friends are more like brothers, and girls call you—still—making it about impossible to escape. I could move. I could change my number. That’s part of the punishment, though, I guess. Everywhere I go, I bump into old friends who I’ve used with before, girls I’ve fucked…people who know the truth. Reminders.
I don’t deserve to get that fresh start.
But that girl Melody, for whatever reason, is the first person to spark my interest in a long time—that makes me wish I could take that step. That I wasn’t so full of shit. She’s just the type I’d be all over, hustling to get digits and into her panties…back before. But something tells me her story is just as sorry as mine. And hooking up with a user? That’s the last thing that needs to happen.
Two loser addicts reminiscing on the good ol’ times. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
And now, so am I.
Melody
For a prayer is not heard
WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT.
Stale cookies, pissy apple juice, and what looks like turd dip with tortilla chips spread around it in an array of off-yellows and browns. This is what thousands of dollars spent on rehab gets you? Come on. Somebody’s pockets are getting lined, because it certainly isn’t being spent on our cuisine. I’m just glad it’s not my non-existent money.
I pick through the remaining cookies on the tray, looking for anything with chocolate. That’s one craving I can’t deny while I’m holed up in here. And if I don’t get my chocolate fix soon, there will be murder.
“So you about killed me up there.”
My shoulders tense and the cookie in my hand drops. “Dammit. That was the only chocolate chip.” I fetch it from the pile again and quickly take a bite, savoring the whole two chips of chocolate in the dry, crumbly baked mess.
Turning my head to glimpse the guy who was just talking out his ass to the room, I nod once. “Nice tats,” I say around a mouthful. “You get them while in lock-up here? They tag you?” His face screws up into an adorable half-smile. Damn, he has a dimple—but of course he does. I look away. “Besides, I didn’t name you. You need to take that one up with the one who did.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch him shove his hands into his pockets. “Right. Well, this convo was over before it started, so I’ll let you get back to your cookie hunt.”
My words hit me. Smack in the face. “Shit.” Then I literally smack my head. “Look, sorry...I didn’t mean that the way…”
His forehead creases in confusion before he says, “It’s all right. No worries.” He’s excusing my asinine comment regarding his mother—the one he just finished explaining he lost to an OD—and I’m mentally surveying the quickest escape route. That was above my usual snark, a whole new level of bitch, even for me. “I didn’t take it personally,” he adds.
He turns to go, then pauses. Looks over his shoulder. “Nice bandanna, by the way. That your gang affiliation, Pink Lady?”
I smile inwardly. Nice way to fully let me off the hook, and really, he did have a quick comeback; that Rizzo shit almost made me laugh. But honestly, I’m just not in the mood to be hit on by some guy. In rehab. “If you must know, it’s a me and my girl thing.” That’s all I’m willing to say. Which is more than anyone else here will get after the day I’ve had.
The month.
Swiveling around just enough to almost face me, he says, “Ah. Well that’s cool. I mean…glad you found your other half and all.” He scratches the side of his chin. Which I notice has a hint of five o’clock shadow. And then what he’s saying…or having an awkward time not saying…sinks in.
“Not a lesbian thing, you duce. My BFF. Shit, why are guys so single-minded?” I chuck the Vanilla Wafer and brush my hands off on my jeans. “Peace out. Enjoy your freedom.” A bit harsh. But thinking about Dar, my mood suddenly takes a dive.
He catches my arm, stopping my quick retreat. “Hey. Sorry. There’s nothing wrong if you were gay—”
His hand is warm and it scalds where his skin touches mine. I shrug out of his hold. “Yeah, I know. Tell that to the million other idiots you call brothers, all right? Dumb fucks.” I turn to leave, and again he stops me, stepping into my path. “What’s your damage, dude?”
“I know you’re pissed about being in here, Melody. But don’t take it out on a guy, okay?” He attempts a smile. It’s sweet, in that “I’m a poor little lost boy” way. Wow. He must have been a good drug seeker back in his glory days. Who could turn down that dimple?
Then the fact that he knows my name catches up to my dimple-delayed brain. “How the hell do you know my name already?”
He shrugs. “It’s a small place. You’re not the new kid here for long.” I notice his hazel eyes. Pupil’s normal size. He really is clean—maybe.
“So that shit you talked up there.” I nod my head toward the front of the room. “Truth? Or some work program you have to complete for your PO?”
For the first time, I see this guy’s face waver. His features pull into themselves, a shadow passing over. “Both, kind of. But it’s by my choice. I report to my PO and she likes to hear that I’m involved with the community.” He makes air quotes.
But that’s not really what I asked. And he knows it. Junkies…they’re all the same. You’ll never actually get the whole story. Some because they can’t own to it, others because it risks ratting someone else out. Whatever the reason, an addict’s story is usually always skewed.
“You told it well, duce. Maybe someday I’ll hear the real one, huh?” I step around him and yank the bandana from my head. I pull my hair up into a ponytail and wrap the band from my wrist around it, getting the heat I felt from his stare off my skin along with my hair.
“Hey, Melody,” he says, and I glance back. “Is that an invitation?”
I laugh. “Sure. Soon as you can spring me from this joint, you can tell me anything you want, guy.” Then I leave before I do something stupid—like ch
eck out that damn dimple again. I can feel his smile burning on my backside.
“It’s a date,” he hollers back.
Right. I’m sure in twenty days, he’ll have that plan all hatched out. But the last thing I’m looking for is another guy to get my kicks with.
I have a more important date to keep when I’m released.
Closing my hand around Darla’s charm dangling from my necklace, I walk out of the room.
The silence is almost worse than the pain.
Night. It’s the best part. Always my favorite. With long rides down twisty dark roads, the hum of my bike echoing off trees and the pavement, my face feeling the cool kiss of darkness. It’s my solace.
Or the loud, smoke-filled bars with a local band tearing up the stage, Dar and me dancing. A bourbon and Coke in my hand, a fresh rail of blow up my nose…where there’s never any silence to hear myself think.
Now, with the walls closing in, folding one on top of another, like a rat trap snapping down, the night is the worst kind of enemy.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I burrow down into the tiny twin bed. My calves ache so badly I wish I could push my hand between the muscle and bone. Just snap the suckers in two. My stomach is on fire. Whatever I ate earlier is about to make an appearance all over the starched, blank walls of this cell.
I’m torn between chills and fever. My body feels numb, but not the numb I love so much. It’s a pasty numb. A wet, sweaty numbness that makes my movements slow and tender. I can’t figure out if I’m burning up or freezing. My skin is raw to the touch.
My roommate is asleep on the small bed beside mine. I want to shake her awake and demand she give me whatever stash she’s holding. Because there isn’t a junkie in this place that doesn’t have at least something to take the edge off. Xanax, Ambien, Valium…something. She’s sleeping too damn soundlessly.
Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 4
