Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

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.”

Silence, and a few grunts. Expected.

“But,” I say, switching my stance from laid back to noncommittal, “you can’t. You’ll never achieve full recovery. It’s a load of crap counselors feed you to mark some steps off in their agenda books and feel they’ve done everything possible for their patients.”

While I let this reality absorb, I take a breath, get ready to dive into my story. And a pink bandana snags my attention. The girl wearing it as a head piece over her burgundy and black streaked hair completely makes me forget my place. Her dark eyes stare right through me, and her gorgeous yet hard-as-nails face makes the words stick in my throat.

“I, ah…” Furrowing my brow, I blink, trying to force my gaze away from hers. One side of her knowing mouth quirks up; she’s made me. Dammit. “Fuck, where was I?”

This gets real laughs, and the chick actually full-on smiles. It does something to my insides. Bolstered with her approval, I say, “Recovery. It’s an ugly road that no addict ever reaches the end of. An ongoing battle never conquered.” Quickly glimpsing the bandana chick, I note her missing smile. I’ve already lost her. “So what’s the point? Why would anyone want this struggle if there’s never a finish line?”

It’s a rhetorical question. No one ever answers. But today, my bandana girl is the first.

“I don’t know, Daniel Boone, why don’t you tell us?”

My gut drops to my boots. I’m caught off guard while the room laughs, but only for a moment. What can I say? I like a challenge. Though that Daniel Boone line nearly leveled me. Good one.

I give her a curt nod. “I’m about to, Rizzo.” Her sneer freezes on her face. Mentally stashing that for later, I press on. “We choose to struggle because the alternative is worse. Shared, nasty needles riddled with disease. Waking up in strange places, forgetting and regretting what we did the night before.” I tick off on my fingers as I go. “Cheap, lame sex bought and paid for in a stupor…and you know some of you can’t deny that.”