Page 38

I experience five days of agony. I sweat through who knows how many sets of sheets, and patient hands maneuver me out of the way to periodically change them and my clothes.

I don’t really register who’s in the room with me, the pain is so great.

There’s a bucket for me to throw up into, and a bathroom attached that I’ve unfortunately rushed to more than once.

That bone-deep ache only grew worse the longer I went without the drug.

If I could split open my skin and pull out my intestines, I think it might hurt less.

And the worst part is that I haven’t been able to sleep more than a few hours. I roll and thrash in bed, I press my fingers to my throat to make sure my heart still beats. I cry.

Every so often, my muscles cramp and refuse to loosen.

On the sixth morning, a little of the fog has cleared. I’m able to thank the woman who comes in with a broth for me to sip.

And by the eighth, I’m able to shower. I groan when I wash my hair, and again when I’m able to brush out the tangles. The bristles against my scalp is heavenly.

Once clean, I put on light-gray sweatpants and a plain white, long-sleeved t-shirt. White socks. Slip-on gray shoes. Very fashion-forward. The woman knocks, returning after a moment of privacy, and motions for me to join her.

Her name is Mary Catherine. I focus on the pale-yellow and green tiles that break up the monotonous cream ones, while she chatters about nothing important.

Just filling the silence, I think.

“You’ll be moving to our main house after assessment,” she says.

I straighten a bit. “When is that?”

“Now.”

Oops.

She opens a door and motions for me to enter ahead of her. I tuck my hair behind my ears and creep inside. It’s… well, shoot. It’s a therapist’s office, clear as day.

There’s the comfortable-but-professional chair. There’s the couch.

An older woman enters from another door, and she smiles widely. It’s toothy, but not in a bad way. Her hair is a mix of blonde and gray. Her dark-purple cardigan looks perfectly cozy. Jeans and tennis shoes complete the ensemble, plus a gold necklace and earrings.

“I’m Dr. Hawthorne,” she introduces. “What’s your name?”

My eyes widen.

“I didn’t tell anyone my name?”

She shakes her head gently. “Our initial hold for drug users is a week. If you elect to leave, we don’t keep records. This is day eight, so you are free to go if you want.”

She pauses.

I don’t say anything.

“Our systems are not online. Everything is handwritten, including if we reach a diagnosis or prescribe medicine. This makes us an attractive option for those who might not want to be found. Domestic abuse cases, et cetera.”

I nod along.

“So. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Would you like to take a seat?”

I eye her. “Is there any reason you’d bar me from leaving?”

“Only if you tell me you’re an imminent threat to yourself or others.”

“Okay.” I sit on the couch and immediately tuck my legs up under me. “I’ve just got to preface, Doc… I don’t think you’re going to believe me.”

She sits, her full attention on my face. Her gaze is warm. “Try me.”

Day… ten?

The withdrawal symptoms are manageable enough, so I move to the main house. Mary Catherine warns that I’ll have a roommate. They do night checks. There are a number of safety precautions, but it’s all for the security and wellbeing of the residents.

I hesitate to call myself that.

I’m more like a temporary guest.

It doesn’t matter, though. I keep that note to myself, a tiny imaginary asterisk following the word every time she mentions it.

*Not you, visitor!

Besides therapy and meals, there’s a relatively limited number of activities. I’m not allowed to go into town alone, although Mary Catherine seems to have designated herself as my best friend. She promises me that we’ll go as soon as it stops raining outside.

There’s no rain.

There hasn’t been rain.

I don’t say anything, though, and just smile along.

That afternoon, I find myself alone. I wander the halls, not quite lost… just exploring. Content to figure it out as I go. There are lines along the floor, and all the rooms are numbered. It’s not really rocket science.

One of the doors is open, and my attention snags on a pair of bright-blue shoes sitting on a desk. The rooms themselves lean more minimalist—a desk and chair, a bed, two pillows and one blanket per person—but I’ve seen how residents* make their space feel like home.

The shoes, though…

I’m not sure what happened to my old clothes. I wasn’t married to anything I was wearing, and I didn’t have a phone to worry about. My cell is probably still in my condo, dead or neglected on the charger.

If I had it, I think they would’ve taken it away.

We’re not really allowed to have laces. That was another thing explained to me by both Dr. Hawthorne—with logic—and Mary Catherine—with horror. Because laces can be used to hurt ourselves if we really want, and she really doesn’t want that.

This person has shoes with laces, though, and they’re not the drab gray I’ve seen everywhere else in the past two days.

Against my better judgment, I enter the room. I stop right at the edge of the desk and stare down at the bright-blue shoes. They look soft, like fake suede, and the laces are black. There are little lightning bolts on the sides.

Not my color, but cute.

And curious.

When I turn to leave, someone blocks my way. A girl maybe double my size.

“Hi,” I blurt out, trying not to seem startled.

“Like them?” She points at the shoes.

Well, she points at my chest, but I’m blocking the desk. So I can only assume what she means.

“They’re very pretty.”

“They came for Sleeping Beauty.”

I squint at her. “What?”

“Gifts come for her, but she doesn’t need them. So I took them.” She shifts out of the doorway, leaving me a gap to slip through.

“Where is Sleeping Beauty?”

“One-oh-nine.” The girl picks up the shoes and cradles them to her chest. “Imagine if one day she woke up and found her bed covered in presents? She’d be sick with it, I think. I’m just helping.”

I nod carefully. “You’re right.”

Remind me to lock my door—oh wait, no one’s sent me a damn thing .

I have a pad of paper and pencil in my desk drawer. Dr. Hawthorne has suggested that I write letters to my loved ones. But how am I supposed to begin to explain…? I assume Reese gave a summarized version to Saint. Maybe Antonio. No idea about Kade.

They feel so far away.

My watch beeps. It’s not a smart watch, but it has alarms built into it for the daily group therapy, which happens twice a day.

Lucky me.

Putting Sleeping Beauty out of my mind, I leave the girl to her stolen shoes and prepare to spill my guts.

Dear Saint,

I’m sorry.

I kind of just left on you, didn’t I?

Part of me hopes Reese explained it all. The details that I told, the stuff that he noticed… Another part of me really, really hopes he didn’t. That part—the delusional part—wants you to hear it from me.

How I succumbed to addiction, how Gabriel got under my skin.

I’m sixteen days sober. My headache has subsided, and the bone-deep ache is finally abating. Sleep doesn’t come too easily, and much to my roommate’s annoyance, I toss and turn for much of the night.

Ah, well.

Sixteen days.

Seems like I’ve been gone two months, not two weeks and two days.

Am I counting?

Does my obsessiveness show through this letter?

A clock may as well be taped to my head, a calendar printed on the inside of my eyelids.

Sometimes all I can think about is leaving. I get so desperate to escape, I consider jumping into the ocean and taking my chances.

The ocean has always liked me, after all.

Other times, like tonight, the thought of leaving this place petrifies me.

How is Sterling Falls?

How are you ?

Please fill me in on Reese and Kade—yes, I know, I shouldn’t want to know anything about Kade Laurent, but I can’t help it. I find myself wondering. Caring.

And Antonio. Give him my love. I’ll hold on to my apologies and offer them to him when I see him next.

With love,

Artemis

I hold my breath when I reread the letter.

Saint would reply, I think.

But I don’t send it, so I guess I’ll never know.