Chasing Her (Dark Love 3)

Lex continues to stand beside her, watching us intently.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

It’s as clear as day.

I give them all a final smile before walking away for good.

Another chapter in my life closed.

But this part of the book ended happily for them, not me. I still have a lot of soul-searching to do.

I no longer have Chelsea, I no longer have Charlie, and I refuse to die in a heap of white acid.

But I do need help.

Who’s going to save me now?

I shuffle my legs in an attempt to get comfortable. Whoever invented plastics chairs is a dickhead. Perhaps it’s not even the chairs, more the fact that I’m sitting in a circle surrounded by complete strangers who, just like me, are sitting on these shitty plastic chairs. On one side of me is my baggage, and on the other, my demons. Is there a savior in the room? That’s why we all sit here praying that someone will save us from our inevitable death.

The support meeting is located in a quiet hall behind one of our local churches. I think fate stepped in when I stumbled upon the small ad in the newspaper. I didn’t want some big-shot rehab facility. Call me naïve, but I’m not that fucked-up.

An older lady with gray-streaked hair sits down and smiles at each of us. She looks at peace, and there’s a calm aura surrounding her. I don’t want to stare at anyone, but curiosity gets the better of me. We’re all puppets in this freak show. Maybe I’m not so screwed-up, or worse yet, maybe I’m the most insane person sitting in this room. Something tells me the tranny sitting across from me has bigger issues.

The lady clears her throat, and on closer inspection, she has a Bible in her hand.

“Good afternoon, friends.” Her voice is soothing. She reminds me a lot of my grandmother. “My name is Hazel, and I’d like to welcome our new friend.”

There are a few smiling faces in the group, and then there are those staring blankly into space.

“I’d like to tell you about myself and why I am here today.” She takes a deep breath. I sense I’m not going to like what she’s going to say. “Twenty years ago, in front of this building, I lost my husband and son.”

An eerie silence falls over the room. The tranny is clutching a handkerchief, dabbing each eye, careful not to smear the excessive amount of blue eye shadow smeared across his eyelids.

“We had just finished Sunday morning mass and were walking out of the church to our car. My son stopped to tie his shoe, and my husband waited for him. I was only a few feet ahead when I heard the loud bang. The next minute, I see my husband and son lying on the ground.” Hazel traces her fingers along the engraved crucifix that sits on the cover of the Bible. “It was a boy who took my family away from

me. He was only thirteen years old, bullied into a gang, and he did what he needed to do to survive on the streets. I have spent so many years asking why I was punished, why would God take away my family? The pain comes in waves, but somehow I have to find purpose in why I was spared.”

My heart is breaking for her. To have your husband and son shot in front of you is unthinkable.

“I’m not here to preach the Lord, despite that I carry this around.” She lifts the Bible, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “This is my way of finding peace. Everyone is different, and that’s the first step to healing.”

A man sitting beside her is rocking back and forth. He scratches himself, annoyed, and Hazel recognizes his impatience. His hair is ginger-colored and covers his face, so his eyes are barely seen. He’s wearing brown baggy jeans and a dull green T-shirt. It’s an inappropriate moment to be thinking that he looks like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, but he sure does.

“I still haven’t found it, Hazel,” he complains.

Hazel smiles at the man. I suspect this isn’t the first time she’s heard this.

“Jerry,” she softly scolds. “You have found that first step, you just need to accept it.”

He continues to be irritated, scratching like a madman. Something about his scratching is contagious. Soon I find myself scratching my arms like I have chickenpox.

“I need to get the hell out of here,” he huffs.

Hazel walks over and places her hand around Jerry’s shoulder. At first, he flinches, then his body visibly relaxes.

What the fuck was that about?

A slight creak of the door interrupts whatever the hell just happened with Jerry. A woman sneaks in and sits at a chair near the exit. We all turn to her direction, though with her head bowed down and face covered by a hood, we can’t see her face. Hazel looks pleased, although the woman does not look up.