Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  From the first time I injected myself with heroin, I knew I was done for. It was clear to me even at that stage that this would be the road I’d head down, just those few short months ago.

  I’d been at a college party. You know the scene: you’re with a bunch of friends, partying all night, drinking until you throw up, but immediately starting all over again. I’d taken a countless number of pills. What exactly they were remained, to this day, unclear because I had no boundaries, always searching for the escape, but never quite finding anything that could take the edge off like I wanted.

  As we sat on a filthy futon in an apartment belonging to some guy I barely knew, I mentioned to a friend that while I had a blast with recreational stuff, I still remembered everything. We laughed at my inability to quiet my crazy mind.

  “You know, heroin takes it all away,” she said proudly.

  “You’ve done heroin?”

  She nodded. “I used to just snort it, but the high is even better when you inject.” She rolled up her sleeve, putting her track marks on display as though proud of them. My stomach twisted with unease but at the same time there were stirrings of intrigue. Could one single drug really erase all my pain?

  “You know me. It won’t work.”

  She scoffed. “Trust me, I’m as fucked up as they come so if it can shut me off, I’m sure it would you too.”

  Unsure of whether or not that was really a road I wanted to travel I kept my head down, but as she continued to talk about how it made her forget all her troubles it became harder and harder to suppress the temptation. “Okay, fine, I’ll give it a whirl, but if it doesn’t work you owe me big time.”

  She grabbed her bag and walked me through the process, cooking it up for me, drawing a needle. She looked at me, her eyebrow raised, and said, “I don’t mind sharing.” I shrugged my shoulders and thought, Why not? holding out my arm, silently giving her permission, and she went right to work.

  In that second my whole life changed. Tying off my arm with her belt, she helped me find a vein and handed me the needle. “Just stick it in right there. Push the plunger.”

  I was so desperate for an escape that without so much as a second thought, I did it. And as the drug flowed through my veins, all the pain I had been holding on to for years was gone; vanishing without trace. When the belt was released from my arm the warmth moved through by body at lightning speed, covering me like a blanket as I moaned, smiled, and fell back against the couch. My heart slowed and my brain stopped screaming at me.

  “It’s good, huh?” she asked, her lips turned upward in a sly smile.

  I remember wanting to smile back at her but I could only manage a slight nod. Words escaped me. One thing I was sure of: her use of the word “good” had been an understatement. How I felt in that moment was exactly what I had been looking for. The pain was finally gone, and for the first time in forever it was quiet inside my head. My eyelids grew heavy, fluttering a few times before the silent darkness surrounded me, drawing me into a peaceful sleep for the first time in as long as I could remember.

  I awoke the next morning, sprawled across the same filthy futon. My eyes popped open, taking a minute to adjust to my surroundings as the fog slowly lifted from around me. I took a deep breath.

  Heroin had made the sun rise in my soul.

  And I needed the sun to rise again.

  And again.

  After that one fateful evening, my days became consumed with chasing the sun. Always looking for the next high. A search for numbness. It didn’t matter to me that I was supposed to be in class, or that I had responsibilities to myself and others. I stopped showing up. I stopped trying.

  But that high . . . it was an evasive sonofabitch. Day after day it took more and more to get there. So, of course, I did more. Slowly, I found myself needing it to just make it through a day without shaking or getting sick.

  But somehow, when it came to heroin, I could always muster the strength to seek it out. I cleaned out my savings. I started bartering with other users, taking turns buying. Then as the semester came to a screeching halt, I realized how bad things had gotten.

  Three months lost.

  Totally unaccounted for.

  Part of me was ashamed, but the other part of me was relieved. I had managed to not only fuck up again, but to have totally missed the last three months of my life. It was reassuring in a way. At least I knew it wasn’t all for nothing.

  Walking out of my dorm should’ve scared me. I didn’t have a plan. I was just going to show up on my parents’ doorstep and hope for the best. I knew my mother would take me back in; try to save me from myself.

  Shame it wasn’t just myself I needed saving from.

  AS SOON AS I walk into Asher’s office for my session, I give him a quick onceover. He’s in grey dress pants and a fitted white button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone and I can see the hollow of his throat. My eyes move down to where the material meets and as I argue with myself about what color I would call his skin, memories from last night flood my vision and my thighs clench instinctively, heat shooting between my legs.

  I look away from him, hiding my reddening face and willing myself to relax, I take my normal spot on the couch, the other side of his office. My session has barely started and I can already tell that this is going to be the longest thirty minutes of my life. I am aware of Asher making small talk with me but I can’t straighten my thoughts out enough to make out the words he’s saying, my eyes focusing on the cover of my journal instead of interacting with him.

  “Tegan, are you with me today?”

  I’m definitely with him. He just doesn’t know exactly how “with him” I am. Unable make eye contact with him for fear of giving away my every thought, I nod once, playing with my journal, flipping the cover open and shut, open and shut.

  In giving myself permission to think about Asher in the way I had last night, I don’t think I fully appreciated just how awkward any future sessions would be. I was in the same room as him. I had thought about him while I touched myself. I’d thought about it since. In fact, if I’m being honest, he has become the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning; the last thing I think about each night. And what I think about every minute in between. It’s weird, borderline unhealthy I’m sure, and has quickly become an obsession. And according to this place, I’m supposed to be avoiding those on account of my “addictive personality.”

  His recent words of wisdom ring through my brain over and over again. Replace the heroin.

  But what if he’s the replacement I’ve been looking for?

  I shake my head clear and Asher’s forehead pinches together. He eyes me quizzically, trying to read me. It’s in his nature to try and figure me out so I can’t let him know something is up otherwise he’ll be like a dog with a bone. “You’re not with me,” he concludes. I risk a glance out the corner of my eyes and watch as he stands from behind his desk and walks to the middle of the room. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at me, clearly displeased.

  “Sorry,” I say, laying my journal on my lap and turning to face him. “I’m thinking about something else.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” He sits down next to me on the couch, his arm accidentally brushing mine, igniting the fire I thought I’d extinguished in the bath. I shy away from him.

  “Not really.”

  He leans back against the couch, resting his arm across the back. In this position he looks relaxed, approachable. Alluring . . .

  Stop thinking about him like that!

  “At the risk of sounding totally preachy, you’ve got to open up more.”

  “You’re right,” I say absently. “You do sound preachy.”

  His proximity is unsettling and so I turn my face to the wall in front of me, studying the picture hanging behind his desk. I can’t look him in the face. Not yet. Probably not ever. “I wish it were that easy,” I say quietly.

  “I just want to help
you. Let me, please?”

  I want to laugh. If he knew all the ways I want him to help me, he’d surely crawl under his desk and die of embarrassment. That is exactly how I feel at the moment.

  I count a total of eight stars on the picture. Focusing on something menial and quantifiable makes me feel better; plus, I’ll have something to tell him if he asks what I’m thinking about. The room is quiet for a long while and I’m just starting to relax, thinking he’s taken the hint and moved on when I feel the back of his hand against my cheek. I turn quickly, but he doesn’t move his hand, undeterred by my clear surprise. Then again, Asher hasn’t been one to keep to boundaries as of late. I don’t know what to do. I’m so out of my comfort zone here. So, like a stubborn toddler, I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath in through my nose.

  “What is going on with you?” Asher asks. When I don’t reply or move he says, “Tegan, open your damn eyes.” I do and immediately regret my decision. His eyes are locked on mine and every thought and sensation I’ve been trying to ignore since last night ignites at once, the fire spreading to my stomach, churning my gut and making my heart beat like a hummingbird’s.

  “Seriously,” he says, his voice softer now. “Tell me what’s up.”

  “The sky.”

  He groans, dropping his hand, allowing me to put some distance between us. “This isn’t a joke. I’m worried about you. You seem . . .”

  “Distracted?” I finish.

  “Yeah. That’s the word. Distracted.”

  “Maybe that’s because I am.”

  He seems surprised. By my honesty or my admission, I’m not sure, but he misses a beat before asking, “By what?”

  “You.”

  His eyes grow wide with shock and he leans back on the couch, blinking once, twice; tracing his lower lip with his fingertips, searching for something to say.

  “Didn’t expect that, did you? Well, if there’s one thing you’ve learned about me, Asher Hughes, LADC, it’s that when I speak, I speak the truth.”

  “Tegan,” he starts, but I don’t allow him to continue.

  “Don’t. It’s fine. It’s stupid, really. I’ll get over it.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I was going to say was . . .” Another pause. I’m not sure I can take much more of this. “I think you’re amazing. The minute I saw you, I felt a connection that I don’t normally—especially with patients. I identified with you. I saw something of myself in you. From that very first day you showed up here I could tell that you have determination, a fire within, and that’s why I’ve done things for you that I probably shouldn’t have. But you need to focus on your recovery, Tegan. You need to beat this addiction because you have so much to show the world . . . and me.”

  His words slam into my chest and I inhale sharply.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No. It’s just—” I pause, considering whether or not to tell him the extent to which I find him distracting. I decide against it, chickening out and simply saying, “I’m not sure how I feel. Sorry for jumping down your throat.”

  “No need to apologize. You’re in a fragile place at the moment. Your emotions are heightened and I understand that. You’ve spent years pushing them down and now they’re making their presence known. It’s hard to know what to do with all of that, isn’t it?”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “It’ll get easier. I promise.”

  He visibly relaxes in front of me and I know I made the right decision in keeping my crush to myself. It was awkward enough without him knowing. Telling him could open up a whole other can of worms and I have enough on my plate. “I don’t know if I could do this without you.”

  “I’m just glad to be of some help.”

  “You are.” I smile. “More than you know.”

  THERE WAS A TIME in my life where I had been pretty successful. Well, I’d managed to appear to be pretty successful; before college became a complete blur. Night after night was spent in the same way. And not in the way you would think. No, I didn’t waste my time studying. What did you do during high school? you might ask. Well, in no particular order:

  Booze.

  Boys.

  Oh, and pot.

  That was what my whole high school experience consisted of.

  It was a miracle I managed to pull decent grades, really, but somehow I did. I showed up for class. I did the work. Teachers loved me, and the grades followed. By the time I reached high school age my older siblings had paved the way and, luckily for me, they were all above average students. Not only smart, but talented too, they had wooed the faculty and staff to the point where I could’ve submitted drivel and gotten perfect marks. It was easy. The only challenge I faced on a daily basis was which boy I was going to fool around with, or how I was going to score some weed. I certainly didn’t care about grades. About anything.

  Night after night I did the same thing. I waited until my parents went to sleep, then with the darkness surrounding me, I’d sneak out through my bedroom window, climbing down the lattice that was stuck to the side of the house. I screwed around. Drank if I felt like it. I most definitely smoked some weed. My parents had no clue what I was up to. Well, if they did, they never let on. For all I knew, they thought I was in my room studying. I got away with it for four years. Until my senior year, when they finally figured out the truth. Even over time, with everything I’d put my body through, the memory remained clear in my mind.

  It was a Thursday, like all the other Thursdays before, and I was sneaking back into the house through the window in the kitchen. I didn’t dare to climb back up the lattice. Not stoned. I was a pothead, but I wasn’t stupid. I slid in quietly, creeping across the cold tile of the kitchen. By the time I walked into the living room, my feet fell heavier than usual. There had been a time when I’d tried to actually be quiet when sneaking in—keeping my feet light and my body as silent as possible—but the more frequently I got away with it, the less I cared. After years of practice, I was never nervous about the sneaking in and out. Years, and I still hadn’t been caught.

  That was, until the living room light snapped on. I gasped and jumped, looking at the couch where my very pissed off father sat.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

  With the shock wearing off, I felt my confidence returning. Back then, I was cocky. There was not a lick of fear in my veins. Whether it was from all the weed, or simply my lack of give-a-damn, I was more annoyed that my game was up. I rolled my eyes and threw my jacket over the bannister of the stairs. “Out,” I answered coldly.

  “No shit, Tegan,” he clipped back. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where the hell were you?”

  “Like you care.” His sudden interest in my whereabouts was almost laughable. It was like he was trying to make good on the last seventeen years, but I wasn’t buying it.

  He jumped to his feet, surprisingly nimble for a man his age, and walked toward me. “Of course I care! I’m your father, damn it!” His words cut through me. He always knew the right thing to say—or was it the wrong thing? It really depended on how you looked at it. Whichever way, the words sparked emotions within me and I could feel the tears threatening to break free. But I refused to let him see me cry.

  Not anymore.

  Never again.

  He had seen far too many of my tears. I didn’t want to look at him another second. I just wanted the conversation to be over. The pot had made me sleepy and I just wanted my bed. “Well, Father, if you must know, I was out with Billy Stevens.”

  He sighed, a resigned sound. “That boy is nothing but trouble.”

  He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. It was part of the allure. Billy Stevens was notorious. As a young boy, he’d spent his time egging and toilet papering the neighborhood houses. From there it all went downhill for him. His detentions turned into juvenile deten
tion facilities, swapping whoopee cushions and firecrackers for stealing cars and drinking. He’d just returned to my high school that fall, my attraction to him nothing more than his weed hookup. There was no sense in arguing with him. He was right. Billy Stevens was the worst kind of guy. “You’re right, he is.”

  A shocked look came across his face. Then again, it wasn’t often that he and I saw eye to eye. “Well, I don’t want you to see him again.”

  “Fine,” I lied, knowing I’d continue to see Billy Stevens, maybe not for a hookup but definitely for the weed. My father didn’t have to know that it would be someone else tomorrow anyway. It wasn’t worth the argument or the time. We both knew he didn’t really care. This was all part of the big façade.

  “Fine,” he restated. “I’m glad you’re being so mature about this, Tegan.”

  “Whatever.” I headed for the stairs.

  “Oh, Tegan,” he called after me, his quiet voice carrying easily through the silent house. “No more sneaking out. Just ask.”

  I nodded before continuing up the stairs. Tears pricked my eyes. He didn’t really care what I was doing. We both knew that. All he really wanted was to be able to keep tabs on me; to know that I was out making bad decisions was enough for him. He reveled in the fact that even though I was teenager, he still had control over me.

  Throwing myself on my bed, my face in my pillow, I exhaled my frustrations, vowing to make sure that I always maintained the upper hand. He couldn’t control me.

  Plus, I could always make things worse.