Vanna
The first day is the worst.
Actually, that's a lie.
The first day is just the beginning of the worst.
A preview of the hell that's coming for me.
I'm lying in a bed that isn't mine, in a room that smells like industrial cleaner and false hope, and my body is starting to remember what it means to be denied.
The doctors gave me something to ease the transition—Suboxone, they called it—but it's not enough.
It's never enough.
My skin feels like it's been turned inside out.
Every nerve ending is screaming, raw and exposed, and even the soft cotton of the sheets feels like sandpaper against my flesh.
I'm sweating and freezing at the same time, my body unable to decide which torture it wants to inflict on me first.
One moment I'm throwing off the blankets because I'm burning up; the next, I'm curled into a fetal position, shivering so hard my teeth chatter.
The cramps hit without warning—waves of agony that roll through my muscles like electrical shocks.
My legs jerk and spasm.
My stomach clenches so tight I can't breathe.
Every joint in my body aches like I've been beaten with a baseball bat, and the pain in my bones—god, the pain in my bones—feels like they're being hollowed out from the inside.
I curl into a ball and try to think about Garrett.
His hands on my skin in that motel room.
The way he looked at me like I was still worth something.
The way he said "I love you" like it was the truest thing he'd ever spoken.
But even those memories are slippery, sliding away from me like water through my fingers.
All I can think about is the hunger.
The need.
The desperate, clawing want for something to make this stop.
Just one more hit. Just enough to take the edge off.
I know it's the addiction talking.
I know that's exactly what got me here in the first place.
But knowing doesn't make the wanting any less intense.
Doesn't make my body stop screaming for the poison it's come to depend on.
A nurse comes in to check my vitals.
