Or it could be the Valium.
It doesn’t matter. I just know I have to get the fuck 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.
Inside the glass shower stall, near scalding water rains over me, washing all memories of the morning nightmare down the drain. I hear my phone beep, notifying me of a voicemail. I eye it on the bathroom counter. I know exactly who it is. My parole officer. She calls every morning on this day, too, just to check if I’m still coming in. That I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t let her down yet—I can’t forget.
During a Florida summer, it’s almost pointless to take a shower in the mornings. As soon as I step outside, the muggy air washes me in sweat, dampening my T-shirt and making my jeans stick to my thighs. But if I don’t get that shower, I don’t really feel awake, like the ritual can’t start until I’ve initiated the first step.
I cross the apartment complex parking lot to where my Triumph is parked. Popping my helmet over my head, I leave the straps undone and climb onto my seat. And for the millionth time since I saw her sullen face last week, the bandana girl enters my thoughts. An easy smile curls my lips as I squeeze the clutch and kick-start the engine. My bike growls to life, the rumble echoes off the concrete walling the lot, and I rev the engine before taking off.
I was hitting on Melody. After the meeting last week, I think I momentarily lost my mind, because that’s something I don’t do. Not anymore. I’ve been trying to convince myself I was just testing the waters, seeing how rusty I am—according to her response, pretty damn rusty. But it’s not like a hot girl walks into Stoney every day—hell, ever.
Honestly, I depend on that fact. It’s safe there, no temptations. I’m not knocking the patients, but Stoney isn’t exactly a high class, spa-like rehabilitation center that attracts starlets, or designer drug users. Melody caught me off guard.
I wanted her. Right then, she was the target, and I was the missile homing in. It felt good, too, natural…until later, when I realized I was acting on autopilot. The old Boone, who I killed and buried, was creeping back to life like a zombie. I should put a bullet in his head.
But damn, the fantasy can be fun. Even now, while scolding myself, I’m imagining the what if—her riding behind me, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist…and then I shake that vision from my head.
It’s all wrong. She doesn’t seem like the type to ride along; she’s the one steering, in control. I’m fine with that. As long as she has her own bike. I’ve never let anyone else drive mine, and no matter how hot the ass parked on my seat, that’s not changing.
A heavy mallet of guilt bats at my chest. These thoughts are dangerous.
It’s been a long time—three hundred and thirty-nine days, exactly—since I even considered the opposite sex as something more than sweet scenery. Jacquie, my PO/counselor, says that’s normal, expected. I wonder if I should tell her about Melody. It’s not like I don’t notice women; I do. Hell, I’m a guy. But there are too many consequences, too much baggage and fallout to justify getting involved with one just for some tail.
“Hey, asshole!”
I swerve and dodge the bumper of an oncoming car crossing the intersection. Fuck.
Getting back into the right lane, I tip my visor to the guy, who in turn flips me off. A surge of adrenaline rockets through my bloodstream, and I’m gunning my bike, heading his way. My heart knocks against my chest as I rev the engine, gaining speed over the asphalt.