Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

“This is your fourth day with us, is that right?” she asks.

I nod, forcing myself to meet her kind blue eyes.

“You’ve been clean as far as I know,” she says. “But you’re not using prescription medications to assist with cravings. Is that what you want?”

I nod, inhaling slowly as my eyes drop to the floor. I tug them back up to meet hers. “I don’t need them.”

“There’s no harm in taking things. To make it comfortable.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She gives me a smile. Almost grandmotherly. “Okay, Miller. We’ll see you at dinner. It’s spaghetti night. Ronald makes the most delicious garlic bread.”

She’s gone fast enough, but her voice hangs in my head. Amelia, the founder of this place, is a doctor from Canada. So she has this accent.

Four days later, and I still can’t fucking believe my luck with this place. I think about it as I walk the short hall to my room—a private room. It’s large enough to hold a twin bed, a small dresser, a nightstand, and a flatscreen TV. There’s a plant in one corner, a slightly dated laptop on the dresser, and one curtained window that’s not made of plastic.

I lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember Monday. I’m pretty out of it after an ECT session. Sometimes Mom told me in the past that I would cry or get sick. Shit like that. I have lots of hazy memories of being pushed through hallways in those fucking wheelchairs. So I don’t really know how I managed to break free. I’m not even totally sure why I did it.

It had something to do with the name marked on my arm. With my tattoo. Gerald, this guy who’d just checked out of Mach House—the place where I am right now—saw me sitting underneath a tree in a park and looking fucked-up, I guess.

He came over, asked if I had anywhere to go, and when I said I didn’t, he asked did I want to be taken to a rehab-oriented shelter. Rehab had me saying “no,” but he said it’s completely voluntary. No drugs pushed on you, no one making you stay or anything. By that time, I’d seen a cop or two, and I figured Sheppard Pratt and Dr. Katz had put out some kind of lost person warning.

Gerald had a truck and offered to drive me down to Federal Hill. I was so scared, I rode in the back of his truck, lying down on my back, watching the clouds smear by.

As soon as we got here—it’s a big, two-story Victorian house on a residential street with a long row of stately brick townhomes—Amelia came out and talked to me. She could probably tell I was a little out of my head, but I got good vibes from her. There was a rainbow flag on the porch, which made me feel comfortable. When I saw the open room, the regular glass window, I felt grateful for the hookup. Gerald is a good guy. Even came to check on me the second day.

I’ve talked to one of the counselors that comes here every other day, because that’s mandatory. Letting them know what we need. I told the counselor woman I left my mom’s house, and I’m gay. That I’ve been using benzos—a more believable and generic tale than detoxing from half a dozen psych meds—but I can detox from them fast, because I’ve done it before. There’s a kitchen with a bunch of vitamins and supplements, a “medicine lady” named Krystal, a piano room, two common rooms, and a screened-in back porch that’s got a pool table and foosball. Once a week, on Saturdays, a local artist comes and leads a workshop in the fenced-in back yard, under the big oak trees. Sundays, everyone is encouraged to meditate.

The only catch to staying here is that you have to sign a paper promising you’ll reach out if you relapse and need help, and you have to agree to an hour of counseling per week.

I put my hand over the tattoo on my chest and say my new name in my head: Miller.

It’s a clean name. Sounds good. Like a good person who wants to have a good life. It sounds like a fresh start.

I get the laptop and fire the thing up, for the second time since I got here. I emailed my mom from a new email address to her work email the first night I arrived here, telling her that I’m not coming back home. I warned her if she decided to try to arm-twist me into anything—coming back to her house, doing more ECT—by telling the cops what happened at Alton, I’ll tell my side of the story. I could fucking wreck her if I wanted to. I could wreck them all.