My entire body hurts for her. She must be in so much pain right now, and she’s still not telling me anything. Why? Does she not trust me enough? Does she feel shame and embarrassment? Or is it something else entirely?
“Look at me, Blair,” I hate myself for using the commanding voice on her, but I need to get through to her somehow. She hesitantly lifts her head up, looking at me through teary eyes. Everything in me wants to reach out and hug her, but I hold myself back, I’m hanging by a thread. “When did it start?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” I interrupt, my voice cutting through her defences sharply. Blair flinches at the accusatory tone in my voice, and fuck me, I don’t want to be like this. But she needs someone stern, because if I let this go on for a daylonger, it’s only a matter of time before I lose her to fucking heroin.
“The day Luna came to visit the apartment,” she whispers.
I’m paralyzed on the spot, unable to move a single muscle except my lips. Disbelief and shock flood me, and the immense amount of self-loathing fills me. How the fuck did I not realize it’s been going on for that long?
“How frequently have you been using it?”
“Twice a day,” she admits. “Sometimes even three times.”
“Fuck, Blair,” I breathe out, burying my face in my hands.
I don’t even know what to say. To say I’m shocked would be an understatement, and to say that I’m so angry with myself doesn’t do it justice. It’s not just that — it’s the fact that even after seeing me go through rehab, she still thought it was a smart idea to turn to drugs.
On some level, I understand. She found solace in the way the drugs made her feel, and I’m certain that at some point, heroin helped keep the nightmares away. I’m just severely disappointed in myself for not being the anchor she needed.
“This can’t go on anymore,” I breathe out, lowering my hands and looking at her. “You’re going to rehab.”
She falters, swallowing, then wiping the sweat off her forehead. “No, I don’t need it, I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t,” I grit out. “You weren’t just using it for a week, and even then, I’d have difficulty believing that you’d be able to do it on your own. You’ve been using it for months, Blair. I’m even sure I want to know the internal damage it has done to you. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you — you’re going to rehab.”
Her eyes snap to mine, pure fear filling those brown. “No, please.”
I swallow down the tears that threaten to leak out of my eyes. Blair needs a stern hand right now, and forcing her to go to rehab is vastly different than forcing her to do anything else. She needs to get better. I won’t let her overdose.
“Don’t beg, please,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You need to get better. Please.”
“I’m scared,” she admits.
That’s it. That’s what breaks me.
In an instant, I’m by her side, pulling her into a tight hug. Her trembling body feels so small pressed against mine, and the grip on my shirt falters after a couple of moments, her sobs reaching my ears.
“I got you, Butterfly,” I murmur, stroking her hair softly. “I’ll be here every step of the way.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers through choked sobs, “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”
“Don’t you dare say that,” I tell her. “You could never disappoint me. I love you, you’re my entire fucking life, Blair. But I need you to get help. I can’t help you here.” That’s when it hits me — this is where the self-loathing emotions are coming from, my inability to help her. I hold her tighter to my body, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please, I need you to go to rehab. The one I went to has a good program.”
It takes Blair a couple of minutes to respond, and when she does, all I feel is a small nod.
“Okay.”
THIRTY-THREE
Nurse Cami makes her next move, and I sigh. She chuckles, the victorious glint in her eyes as sly as always. How the hell is one person so good at playing chess? This is the fifth time this week she’s won.
“Check-mate,” she clasps her fingers together, propping her elbows on the desk, then leans her chin on her hands. A small smile is on her lips. “Although, you’re getting better at this. Maybe you’ll win against me someday.”
I scoff. “I doubt it. You’re like a professional.”
She chuckles, waving me off. “Hardly. You just really have to work on your poker face, it’s terrible.”
