Page 25 of In the Stars

As they take their seats, I look around at those in this group and know I don’t belong. I’m not like them. I could get clean if I wanted to. I’ve been telling Doctor Steinfeld that for the past few weeks, but he always looks as if he doesn’t believe me.

I could have. The thing is, I never wanted to quit. I liked getting high as much as I liked getting drunk. It helped me forget, but it also gave me that weightless feeling I’ve come to love. If I wanted to stop, I would have at any time.

I tune everyone out when they start sharing, not giving a fuck what they have to say. It’s unimportant because it’s all bullshit. They don’t believe what they’re saying. Like me, they go through the motions to get out of here so they can go back to partying and getting high as a giraffe’s ass.

“Pathetic,” I scoff, shaking my head.

“Did you say something, Ryder?” the counselor leading group asks, turning a smiling face to me.

Anger fills me as I spit, “Yeah. I said this is pathetic. You’reallfucking pathetic. I’m not like any of you.”

One of the women, a child of some socialite that’s young enough to not know what a CD player is, says, “Didn’t you, like, pass out in your own vomit on stage or some shit? And you call us pathetic?” She scoffs, mean-mugging me like I’m shit. “You’re just like us. You just don’t want to admit it.”

My anger explodes as I jump from my seat. Gesturing to myself with a trembling hand, I say, “I got drunkonetime in front of a crowd. It ain’t like no one here has done it. My shit just got caught in 4k. It’s never happened before and won’t happen again. How many of you can say you have control when you use?”

The nepo baby has the nerve to look like she feels sorry for me. “None of us do. That’s why we’re here.”

“No, I’m here because my label is forcing me to be. As soon as I finish this bullshit program, I’m fucking out of here and won’t see you junkie motherfuckers again.”

The counselor gets to her feet, her face hard now. “You may go to your room early. You’re welcome back at any time, but today you need a break.”

“I won’t be back.”

I storm off, my mind itching for a joint or some coke. Even a Xannie bar would take the edge off my conversation with Zed and the shit with group.

When I get to my room, I sit on my bed and bring my knees to my chest. All I can think about is getting fucking wasted—taking a shot or swallowing pills so I can stop feeling like this.

Not for the first time, my heart thumps unevenly, as if it’s struggling to pump blood to my body. Sweat crops up across my forehead and down my back, and my hands shake.

“Fuck,” I gasp, putting my head between my knees to pull in enough air. That doesn’t help, so I shoot off the bed and pace my room, trying to walk off the nervous energy. That doesn’t work either.

“Please,” I beg whoever or whatever can hear me, shaking my arms out to try to expel some of the anxiety rippling thought me. “I can’t. Make it stop,” I mutter, yanking at the neck of my shirt to see if that will assist my breathing. It doesn’t. It only serves to send goose bumps over my heated flesh as the cool air drifts past my open collar.

When the panic doesn’t recede after twenty minutes of pacing, I storm out of my room, looking for anyone that can help. I need a drink, some pills or a bump so I can get back to myself. I don’t know who this person is—this weak man wearing my skin—but I want him fuckingaway. He makes me feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m out of fucking control and I fucking hate it.

“Please!” I shout, racing down the hallway, looking for who, I’m not sure. Someone has to have pills. They don’t expect us to just sit in here and quit cold turkey, right? Thestuff they gave me when I arrived is long gone. I’m dry, and I can’t function.

I burst into what they call the community room, glancing around wildly. I must look a fright, but I don’t give a fuck about my appearance right now. I only care about getting what I need so I can start to get better. I need something to hold me over until I can leave and score on my own.

“Mr. Morgan,” Dr. Steinfeld says, rounding the desk from where he was speaking with a staff member He crosses his arms as I approach him, appearing unfazed by my recklessness.

“I said fucking call me Wesley.” I grab him by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer to me. “Doc, I need some pills. Give me some pills. Just to take the edge off.”

He looks sympathetic, holding on to my hands with one of his. “I can’t do that, Wesley. You need to?—”

“To what?” I practically roar. “I need to fucking what? Lose my fucking mind?” I tap the side of my head. “The shit up here? It fucking hurts. I can’t face it, Doc. Give me something. I can start again tomorrow. I can be better tomorrow. Okay? Just…”

He frowns. “Wesley?—”

“Don’t say no.” I walk to one of the tables where some of the residents are playing chess and slap the board onto the floor. They stand up and glare at me. “I’ll knock all this shit over if you don’t give me what I want! Give me the fucking pills!” I walk over to him and shove him in his chest, taking handfuls of his shirt. “Give me some fucking pills!”

His face is relaxed and calm, looking at me not with pity, but with challenge. “You don’t need them.” He holds up one of his hands to the two orderlies standing there, waiting for him to grant them permission to grab me. “You’re strong, Wesley. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. I’ll help you through this. Okay?”

“Doc,” I beg, voice cracking as tears leak from my eyes. “I need help. Oh god, I need fucking help.” I let go of his shirt and drop to my knees, holding my middle as I cry. My throat is raw, and my eyes hurt from the force of my sobs. “Please. I want…I need help.”

A strong hand rubs my back, and I’m so fucked up that I don’t even shy away from the touch. He comforts me, letting me purge my soul in his arms.

“Good, Wesley,” he says like a caring parent. “This is good. This…this is your rock bottom. Now the only way to go is up.”

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