Shattered pieces of glass from a mirror were thrown all over the dirt-brown carpet, making me irritated that I could never get my hands steady enough to hold something so simple. I swept them in my hand one by one, several of them piercing lightly into the skin of my pale palm. Once I disposed of them, my clumsiness prevented me from walking correctly, and I fell flat on my face. A slit of something sharp was felt from the corner of my cheek. I curiously press my hand against the sting, and smeared red all over my palm. I grew disgusted and wiped the blood off the carpet, but the blood stained my hand like fruit punch Kool-Aid. I searched for the source of my injury; an old Christmas card with my adolescent face upon the front, my small hands embracing two ghosts of which names and existence I would not utter. I raised the card in front of my face and pulled it in so close that it became a blur. I tossed it against my suitcase and attempted to shut my eyes, but a flash of something falling out of the card catches my eye. Another picture; I sigh and observe it without any actual interest. The photo was a significant size, and folded so that only my face was revealed. I unfolded it, having some sense of attention. Another woman stood beside me, her lips were attached to my cheek, and both of our faces were enlightened. This woman, she wore a bright orange t-shirt that hung off her shoulders, as if it were way too big for her small frame. Her reddish-brown hair draped over my shoulder and the front of her shirt. On the shirt, the words “Sex Pistols” were written in an unusual font. Her pants were skin tight, faded gray, and ripped at the knees. My mind could not remember who she was. I lifted my arm and held the picture up against the sunlight that crept through the blinds. I looked completely dead in this photo, bags under my eyes, my hair a dirty-blond, wavy mess; a very mal-nourished woman. The tank top I wore was almost see-through, and the pants I wore were washed out black. The background was pitch black with shines of blue neon lights and several hands holding red plastic cups.
“Angela?” I called out, my voice too soft for any pair of ears. Apparently not for Angela, though. She hummed and entered my room, standing by the door and placing her attention on me. Her forearm balanced an organized black binder with patient names written on the tabs, and their evaluations.
“Yes, Leah? Do you need help unpacking?” Angela had the most angelic voice I’ve ever heard. I wish I could just stay here forever with her.
“I don’t seem to remember when this photo was taken, or who I’m with, if you will. Is this normal?” I handed the picture to Angela, watching her set the binder carefully on the maple desk beside her.
“Well let’s see…hmh…” she examined the picture thoroughly, and widened her eyes as she noticed the unfolded part of the picture. Angela seemed nervous, and did not look at me; rather, she re-folded the picture. “You should finish unpacking, Leah.” She slipped the picture into the sleeve of her binder, which made my arms cross in confusion. “We have a group session promptly at noon. Please, be present.”Just like that, Angela rushed out of the room, without giving me a chance to ask her why she had taken the photo from my possession.
We are taught not to question in the Harper Institution for Rehabilitation (HIR), but I have a feeling I won’t quite make it, if that’s the case. In the scarce amount of good memories I have stored, I recalled being addressed as the Socrates of the new generation by my Philosophy teacher. Every day in class, I would ask a new question, whether it was a question that required deep and critical thinking, or a general question about the world. These questions still come to me every now and then. Questions like, what is the true meaning of justice, and who should determine it? What is the true nature of mankind? What creative abominations will the lunch staff produce today? These questions still remain unanswered, but I wish to find the truth some day.
The shower head began spitting out lukewarm water, and I stepped in, cautiously adjusting the water temperature in my favor. The plastic mat inside the bathtub was long and sturdy, as if they knew I was a clumsy girl before I came. I let the water fall onto my back, and shivered at the touch of it prickling down my legs. My pale arms sported bluish, purple marks that disappeared into my veins. All my thoughts began to cloud around my head, similar to the steam of the hot water surrounding my body. My voice formed words that soon turned into sweet melodies. Little bodies roamed in a flowery meadow, hands free, legs splashed with mud, and laughter can be heard around the world. Then a black hole swallows them whole, and my eyes being to bleed.
The water turned ice cold, and I immediately shut it off. I could feel my hair rising and the goose bumps forming on my arms. There was a menacing knock on the door, and a familiar voice broke through.
“Leah, you have twenty minutes to get dressed, and then group session will commence.” Angela said this considerately, trying her best not to seem pushy or pressuring. “Remember we cannot begin session if everyone is not present.” She added, and her footsteps kindly faded away.
I dried myself off quickly but quietly, wondering what the other patients in this institution looked like. I wonder what kind of personalities are mixed in this group, and if there will be any kind of drama like those shows on television. I wrap the towel around my damp hair, watching the blond slowly fade into brown again. There was a ruby colored robe settled on my bed, something that was regular for all the patients to receive, I suppose. There were blue robes on the other bed in the room, which made me wonder; will I be rooming with another person? If so, where are they?
I glanced at the digital clock placed on the desk near the door; 11:55am. I dislike being late to anything at all, so I slipped on the bright colored robes and rushed to the main living center. It smelled of cinnamon incense, a delightful scent to my sensitive nose. Once I saw a trail of olive-colored carpet, I followed it and was met by a circle of five people sitting on beige couches, some of their feet propped onto the coffee table in the center. The atmosphere seemed calm, yet tense at the same time. I could feel the fear in everyone’s bodies, afraid to speak about their past, and open up to complete strangers. I take a seat in an empty arm chair on the other side of where everyone was, feeling a bit secluded but safe. The others stare at me as if I had something vulgar written on my cheeks. I could see the sweat rolling down their necks as I make awkward eye contact with everyone there. Before I could utter a word, Angela makes her entrance with a widened smile and that bloody binder of hers.
“Good afternoon everyone, and welcome to your first group therapy session. My name, if you do not know, is Angela Smith, and I will be your one and only therapist throughout your journey to recovery. Right now…” she glanced at me, and smiled sweetly, “we should get to know each others names and your addictions. We will learn to be comfortable with each other. Think of everyone here as your new friends and help each other develop healthy minds and bodies together. We will go in a circle starting with…you.” Angela pointed at me, and I grinned nervously. I pulled my faded hair behind my ears and cleared my throat. A rail thin woman cuddled her knees and rested her head on her arms, fidgeting with her black, thinning hair. I gave her a sympathetic look and spoke to the group.
“Hello…my name is Leah Julian Taylor, I am seventeen years old, and I am a drug addict and an alcoholic…” Everyone in the group seemed to nod simultaneously at my confession. It gave me a sense of acceptance, and it felt like a huge weight has been knocked off my shoulders. I picked at the scab on my lower lip as the others introduced themselves. The first three women spoke their names:
A raven haired woman, pretty thick in size, waved her hand. “Jessica Kelley, twenty-one years old, I am an alcoholic.”
“Jamie Marie Rivera, twenty-four years old, I am a cocaine addict.” This woman’s voice was shaky, her freckled face squishing as she twirled her thin locks.
“Aria June, nineteen years old, I am an alcoholic and a heroin addict.”
Aria’s eyes gleamed, and averted towards me. She had a sensual look that anyone would fall for, and a body that would kill. Even in those pajamas, she gave off the impression of ultimate beauty. She didn’t seem like she belonged here at all. I could have sworn she was lying when she said she was a heroin addict. She looks too perfect. Her skin was creamy, cheeks peachy, and her hair a vibrant cherry color that matched her plump lips. I was relatively attracted to her, but I kept my mind on the other patients. Two of the men present spoke.
“Brandon White, twenty-two, I am a crystal meth addict.”
“Sam Green, twenty years old, and alcohol is my gateway drug to cocaine.” The last man coughed hard into his dry, ashy hands. His voice was scratchy and out of pitch. I wanted to take his pegs and turn them to the right tune. Angela clapped her hands together and formed a bright, friendly smile on her face. She noted something in a small notebook, and confessed her former addiction to alcohol. “I’m glad that everyone has admitted to their addictions.” She tells us sincerely, avoiding the annoying tone she would use to encourage children. “It shows me that we can definitely move towards a better place. What we will want from everyone at the end of these few months is an autobiography of your life, and why and how you choose to live your life after you become sober. We don’t expect you to have a mass amount of chapters, but it is encouraged to have the most memorable and worst chapters of your life written for either yourself or to share with others who struggle as well. This is not a school, so don’t be worried about deadlines or anything else of that nature. These stories will be yours to look back on and boast on your progress as a human being.” Angela closed her binder and tucked her ballpoint pen behind her ear. “You are dismissed for lunch now, and then you will have the rest of the day to relax and get to know each other. Medications will be given before the curfew. Have a nice stay.” She rose and gave everyone a wave.
I returned with a lazy gesture of my hand, and my gaze towards Aria persisted. She happened to be looking my way as well and raised her eyebrows. She grins widely, almost seductively, and it reminded me of something…someone…that I couldn’t quite make out…my mind became a white blank, and I couldn’t feel my arms.
I shook my head in an attempt to snap back into reality. When my sight came back, Aria was gone, and a bit of my heart shuttered for some reason. A cold front pressed on my neck and made me rush into my room, which was a nice temperature of 60 degrees. My half open lids made me miss the body that lay down in the other bed opposite of mine.
“Who would’ve thought my roommate would be the prettiest girl here? Certainly not me…” Aria spoke in what seemed to be a naturally low voice. Her leg was crossed over the other, her energy overpowering mine. I could feel her arms straddling her breasts as they were crossed over her chest curiously. “I’m honored.”
I kept my mouth closed, but not intentionally. My mouth was glued shut; I had to breathe from my nose. It was difficult for me.
“What’s wrong, Leah? I don’t bite…much…” there was that giddy smirk again. It gave me goose bumps that spread to the very tip of my toes. “If it makes you feel more open and comfortable, I can tell you about myself first?” Aria rose from her bed, her body folded into a sedentary mold. Without speaking, I turned my head and searched for a notebook. I slipped the pen from behind my ear and flipped to a fresh blank page. Aria furrowed her brow. “What are you doing?” I looked up at her with a stirring face, all while my pen was still moving. “I’m going to expose to you the legend of my blue arms.”