Now the stage is cold, the wires fray,
I search for you in songs I play.
Not in crowds, not in fame?—
Just in chords that still wear your name.
ChapterOne
Roderick
April 13th, 1997
This is it.
The last time I sit on this couch.Today, I have to pretend I’m not still carrying the wreckage of who I used to be.Pretend I’m whole and made it out without a scratch.
Confession time: I didn’t.I just stopped bleeding where anyone could see.
I’m all wounds and withdrawal, stitched together by regret and whatever scraps of hope haven’t rotted away.
A walking relapse.
A survivor on paper.
A ticking clock no one hears anymore but could explode at any time.
Everything was supposed to change when I entered this rehab center.That’s what they all say, right?Some kind of awakening.Cleo, my sister, insisted I do this one more time, for me, because I’m worth it.So I did it, not because I believe her, but because this might be my last chance.
Though, now that it’s almost over, I don’t think that’s what happened—the change.I remained just as I was before I almost died.Just like this room.
The beige walls close in like they’ve memorized every secret I’ve spilled since I arrived.That off-brand lemon scent clings to everything—faintly sour, fake, like it’s desperate to scrub away something it can’t touch.
The wooden clock keeps ticking behind Dr.Keller, just like it did the first time I walked in, thin and worn out.Back when I couldn’t stop shaking—hands, knees, voice, everything inside me rattling like I might shatter if someone looked too closely.
I remember thinking my bones might actually splinter from the inside.That the shame living in me might physically break something.That’s what it felt like back then.As if my skin had forgotten how to hold me together.I was just aftermath and damage.
Now I can sit without wanting to jump out the window and run until my legs give out.
That’s progress ...I guess?
Dr.Keller is in her usual chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, with that clipboard in her lap.I’m pretty sure those pages contain my damage, cataloged and underlined.
“Congratulations, it’s your last day.”She looks up briefly, all calm and composed as if we should celebrate this milestone.
Hooray, Roderick made it twenty-eight days without relapsing.Sure, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t toy with the idea of running away and finding a dealer—or a liquor store.So, I’m not sure if it counts.
Just keep pretending,I tell myself.This is the last stretch, and then you’re free.
“Yep.Last official day.”I nod twice, unsure what else to do with myself.The words fall flat and toneless—too chill for someone barely holding it together.The panic claws at my throat, thick and rising.
Perhaps I should stay, beg them to keep me longer.Bargain ...lie?
These people don’t get it.I’m not okay.I’m still craving that escape in the form of whatever I can get my hands on.The thought of walking out of here, of not coming back tomorrow after my meditation session, of not having this room with its stupid lemon scent and crooked rug and occasional moments of clarity—it makes my heart twist in a way I don’t have language for.
I’m scared.
Too fucking scared.
