Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(15)

Weirdoes. I’m too dizzy to bother putting on the shirt, so I drape it over my chest. I’m not one to give a damn if I romp around in the nude. Right this second, though, I feel more than bare; I feel exposed.

By the time the nurse returns, I’m too ill to argue. I allow her to baby feed me the pill and sip the bottle of water she hands me.

“I’ve never once gone through this,” I say, my voice a low croak. And I haven’t. I’ve gone days without doing blow before, and the worst case of withdrawal I ever experienced included hard cravings and I turned into a superior, testy bitch. Irritable, and at times, lethargic. But I’ve never tossed my shit before.

The nurse stands over me, hands on her heavy hips. “Did you stop everything? Smoking pot, drinking, cigarettes?”

My brow creases, but I get what she’s saying. No, I didn’t chuck everything at once. When I wasn’t using, I’d still smoke a bowl—to calm my nerves. Or get wasted with Dar to knock myself out. And of course I didn’t stop smoking. At this very moment, even with my stomach churning bile, the thought of a cigarette makes my molars clamp down. I’d chew the tobacco up if it was the only way to get a hit of nicotine.

“Besides,” the nurse continues when I don’t say anything. “Usually, when someone knows they’re about to go away for a while, they tend to do it up. Go out in a blaze. If you were of that mindset before you got here, you’re probably going to suffer a bit harder for it now.”

Since the night Dar died, I haven’t spent one second sober, if I could help it. So yeah, her words make sense. Doesn’t mean I’m going to own to it.

I force myself into a sitting position and squeeze my eyes closed for a second, then start to stand.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Nurse Bridge says as she takes the mop from Ari and waves her back to bed.

“To smoke a cigarette.” The Valium is starting to kick in, and the nausea—though still kicking my ass—isn’t as strong.

“That won’t do your stomach any good.”

Like hell. “I need to at least fix one craving or I’m going to ram my head through a wall,” I tell her.

She sighs. “I’ll go with you.”

Awesome.

The hallways are cold and it’s too damn quiet. I wrap my arms around my stomach as I follow Nurse Bridge toward a side door off from the main rooms. We push through, and I’m surprised it’s unlocked.

The warm night air is a welcome balm to my sensitive skin. I flick my lighter and inhale a deep drag. Through the aches and chills and nausea, the nicotine does its magic. I feel like I’m fighting one less demon.

Or it could be the Valium.

It doesn’t matter. I just know I have to get the f*ck out of this hell hole.

I’m contemplating the unlocked doors when Nurse Bridge says, “You’re different.”

Her words cause me to halt halfway through a puff, and I choke the rest of the smoke out of my lungs. I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? How’s that?” I flick the ashes from the cherry. “My upchuck projectile the best you ever seen? I can get some real distance when I want.”

A rueful smile crosses her face. “Most cases that walk through those doors are hopeless. Sure some are volunteers, but most, like you, are sentenced. Getting clean is a punishment for them.”

I flick my cigarette again and wait for the punchline. “So how does that make me different?” As far as I’m concerned, this isn’t a retreat.

She looks me in the eyes. “You don’t need anyone to punish you. You’re already doing that yourself.” Turning to go, she tosses over her shoulder, “But only you know for what.”

The nighttime silence swallows all sound. Except for her lingering words. They continue to circle my thoughts as the door clicks shut behind her, leaving me to stare at the chain link fence surrounding my prison.





Boone

But a whisper felt, oh, soft caress of death



A ROAR LODGES IN MY throat. I’m on the outside, looking in—I can see myself just as clearly as if I’m staring in a mirror. Mouth open, eyes bulging, my hands fisted in my hair. A muted silence consumes this frozen-in-time scene. It sucks the air right from my lungs, and as hard as I try to move, to wake from it, I’m forever suspended in this horrifying moment.

I shoot straight up in bed. My back rigid, muscles tense. I’m soaked in sweat. The sheets are bunched in my hands. I toss them aside, thankful for the ability to move. Clearing my throat, just to hear my voice, I shove my feet over the edge of the bed and bury my head in my hands.

“Fucking hell.” Wiping my palms down my face, I force out a breath.

Dim light bleeds into my bedroom from between the slats of the blinds, bathing the lavender walls in first light. It’s a gloomy color—one that matches my waking nightmares every morning. I’m used to it, but the initial realization that the dream is true…that I can’t change it…always sends me into a panic.

I release another heavy breath and push off the bed to head for the bathroom, trying to ignore the bare walls and haunting outlines of the framed pictures that once hung there. After I splash my face with water, I take a piss and then crank the shower knob.

Today is Wednesday. Again. I keep telling myself if I repeat the story enough times that, one day, I’ll be able to bury everything where it belongs. Move on. Until then, I perform the same damn routine.