Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(11)

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.”