Then I remember where I am.
Who I'm fighting to become.
And I let the memory fade, let it settle back into the past where it belongs.
I can't undo what I've done.
I can't go back and make different choices.
But I can make different choices now.
Starting today. Starting this moment.
One hour at a time.
I get out of bed, and I face another day.
By the end of the second week, I'm starting to feel almost human again.
The physical symptoms of withdrawal have mostly faded, replaced by a persistent, low-grade discomfort that the doctors assure me is normal.
My appetite is returning.
I'm sleeping better, even if my dreams are still haunted by ghosts.
I can walk the halls without holding onto the wall for support.
I'm still in the detox wing, but they're talking about moving me to the main residential program soon.
That means group therapy, individual counseling, learning how to live in the real world without the crutch of heroin to lean on.
It sounds terrifying.
It sounds impossible.
But I've survived the past two weeks, and that seemed impossible too.
I'm sitting in the common room, watching the sun set over the mountains, when one of the counselors comes to find me.
She's a middle-aged woman named Patricia, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude that I've come to appreciate.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, settling into the chair beside me.
"Better," I admit. "Not good, but... better."
"That's progress." She smiles. "You've come a long way, Vanna. A lot of people don't make it through detox. The fact that you're still here, still fighting—that says something about you."
I shake my head. "I'm just too stubborn to quit."
"Stubbornness is an underrated virtue." She pulls out a folder, flipping it open to reveal what looks like a schedule. "We're going to move you to the residential wing tomorrow. The real work starts then."
The real work.
As if the past two weeks haven't been work.
As if fighting my way through hell hasn't counted for something.
But I know what she means.
