Page 59 of Lost Lyrebird

But what if he’s not okay—never was?

If so… what the fuck does that make me?

The villain in this story?

CHAPTER 16

Dancing around attraction is an art few people have the skills for.

Damaged goods.“Additional drama,” as she saw it.Knowing it and having it confirmed is like running full out and getting clotheslined.

That shit fucking hurt.

Sitting on the window nook on the east side of the studio, I lean towards the open window and exhale.The joint between my fingers burns slowly, the smoke curling up and dancing in front of me as if trying to comfort me in my hour of need.

I’m a few pills away from being just like her brother.Or at least Lily’s reaction said as much.I’m too much for her to take on.I get that.Some days it’s too fucking much for me to take on.

So do I blame her?

No.

Does it suck?

Yep.

Fuck me up a bit?

Hell yeah, there’s that too.

Am I going to hold it against her?

Fuck no.

I get it.

She doesn’t need another addict in her life, another broken man to fix, and I’ve got no right to add to her burdens.I’ve carried my own weight, and it’s what I’ll continue to do.

The joint’s end flares brighter as I take another deep drag, holding the smoke in my lungs until it burns.Not healthy.Not smart.But better than taking pills, which has been more fucking tempting as the minutes tick by.I cough as the exhale bursts from me.The high kicks into another gear a few minutes later, and I sit in silence, watching the smoke drift and swirl, taking my deep thoughts and scattering them into meaningless, hazy wisps.

The first few years after Iraq were hell.I’ve done my best to put my deeds behind me.But my inability to manage the pain after the incident that ended my career with the Army isn’t pretty.The initial torture of months in the hospital, followed by months of rehabilitation.I’m not too proud to admit, I ate up the meds when they were offered.

They were hand-fed to me at first, passed out like treats to a toddler, but then, prescription after prescription, and pill by pill, that shit was on me.

They were the only mercy available to me in a world of agony.

I had trust then.In doctors, in the promise of a fix.

I didn’t know then what I know now—that prescription pain management is best left in check because it’s a slippery slope to addiction.Some medical professionals are all too happy to push as much of that shit into your hands as you ask for, sometimes beyond what you ask for.

That kind of pain… chronic, absolute, debilitating—the endlessness of it calls darkness and death to the mind like nothing else.Any small measure of relief seems so out of reach.There’s no timeline to it, no speck of hope on the horizon, and no way to make it stop.

This is why pain, opioids, and depression go hand and hand.Peace is the goal; death is then dressed up to look like the greatest gift.And sometimes, it still does.Some days, ending it all seems like the only answer.The only measure of relief that is within my control.

Everything in life bows to the pain.Even man.

I close my eyes, the cool night air seeping through the window, grounding me just enough to keep me from spiraling.My mind drifts back to the past and the last time I felt this low.

I’m roused from the couch by a banging on my door.It’s loud enough to shatter my skull.I’m ready to tear someone apart, because noises like this are like fucking bolts of lightning spearing into my brain.