Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
So I had been special, but apparently only as a patient. When I had been set free and we were able to establish a real connection, she had frozen up on me. She had denied me the ability to reach out, effectively ending our friendship before it began. And then she had waited for me to get dressed, so she could see me as I was, a normal guy with a job and a truck. Why had she waited? If she really wasn’t interested, why did she stick around?
I was confused and frustrated, and my foot depressed the pedal further with every twisted memory. I tore into Singer’s Ridge at eighty miles per hour before slamming on the brakes. I parked outside my building, sitting still for a moment. It was good to be back. And sober, I could really see my surroundings in a way I hadn’t before.
The house was huge. I knew it was full of people, and dissected on the inside, but looking at it from the front, it was almost a mansion. A sidewalk led up to the front door, surrounded by a yard. Some of the residents had planted flowers along the walkway and in beds beside the door. It was stupid, but I felt like I was seeing it all for the first time.
The rain was dropping in sheets, making water splash from the gutters and drain into the flower beds. I hopped out and dashed to the front porch, my shoulders and my hair taking the brunt of the showers. On the porch, the deterioration of the house was more apparent. There were some rugs and a folded treadmill sitting off to one side where a porch swing might have gone. The main door was open, leading to a foyer with mailboxes and an overflowing trash can. My own box was stuffed full of advertisements and credit card offers. I pulled the mess into my hands and climbed the stairs to my attic room. I really needed to find myself a better place.
Fitting my key into the lock, I braced myself for a horrible smell. I wasn’t disappointed. Without treading any further into no-man’s-land, I tossed the junk mail on the floor and locked the door again. Back to my truck, I drove to the hardware store and bought out the cleaning aisle. Garbage bags, spray cleaner, sponges, gloves, you name it, I bought it. I shuttled the purchases back home and braved the room once again.
It was a trash heap. Empty beer bottles were strewn all over the place, clothes draped across every available surface. The trash in the trash can hadn’t been taken out in three weeks, and the smell of rotting takeout permeated the room. Hidden deep within this mess were a bag of heroin and a bottle of pills. The first thing I did was wade through the garbage to the dresser, slide open the bottom drawer, and fumble around until I found what I was looking for.
Before I had time to think, I ripped open a new trash bag and stuffed them inside. Going through the room, I filled the bag to the brim and took it and all the other trash I could gather down to the dumpster. Throwing the drug-filled sack into the bin, I sent a silent prayer to God that I could last until trash day without dumpster diving for a hit.
Back upstairs, I gathered laundry and took it down to the basement. Filling the machine with quarters, I returned to my room, finally able to see the floors. I opened both windows to air it out, stripped the sheets from the mattress, and started a second laundry pile. I broke open the Swiffer mop I had bought and used it until all the grime disappeared. Now the smells of the rain and the spray cleaner overtook the smell of rotting food. A couple more trips to the basement to finish the laundry and the room was as good as new.
This entire time, I hadn’t thought of Gina once. I put her out of my mind. She didn’t want me, so it was time to get on with the rest of my life. I couldn’t let the disappointment derail my sobriety, so there was no time to dwell.
It was still raining, but I hadn’t had a thing to eat besides cereal. I was famished enough to brave the rain. I drove down to the diner on Main Street, parking and racing into the lobby. I shook my shoulders to loosen raindrops from their perch. One of the waitresses was new; I hadn’t seen her before. She seated me and brought me real coffee and a cheeseburger, just like I’d dreamed of so many times in confinement. Biting into it was pure heaven. The grease and the meat, thicker than anything I had been served in the treatment center, went straight to my gut, satisfying me as no fragile sandwich could.