Page 57 of The Scars I Bare
Had Dean been in my thoughts when I made my decision to make Ocracoke our home? Had his face lingered in my thoughts all those years after, like Molly had suggested, reminding me there was hope outside of my hellish life, if I chose to find it?
Looking at the end of the bed, I saw the floral dress Molly had left me. The one she’d promised would give me confidence and do wonders for my soul.
Hell, I could use all the help I could get.
Recovery Journal: Day Seventeen
I saw the ocean today.
I saw the ocean today, and I cried.
I cried so hard, my throat burned, and my ribs ached. I cried for everything it had taken from me—the lazy days, the working days, and every moment in between.
It had once been my home.
My solace.
My peace.
And, in one night, all that had been stripped away.
I was moved today to a rehab facility. Moved like a piece of furniture or a box of junk.
I was no longer a person. Just a job.
The rehab facility is closer to home by a couple of hours. I’m in North Carolina, but home is still a world away.
Driving down the highway in the van the rehab team had sent up felt like I was being thrust into live-action role-play where everyone knew the game but me. I’d been holed up in that hospital room for so long, I’d almost forgotten what life was like on the outside. I’d almost forgotten there were people out here, going on with their daily lives with no real thought to the ferry or how it’d impacted them.
Because it hadn’t.
It’s an odd feeling, realizing how your life can be so utterly altered by a single event while the world is completely unaffected.
I sat back in the van while the rehab team talked about their weekend, laughing about the movies they had seen and the restaurants they had gone to, as I stared out the window, coming face-to-face with the monster of my nightmares.
The taker of all my hopes and dreams.
No doubt, I’ll be thrown in some sort of psych ward now after my mental breakdown in the van. I’m not even sure they have those in this place.
Whatever. I don’t care.
I don’t care about any of this.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Cora shot me down. She’s happily married. With a young daughter.
Happily. She used the word a lot when she told me. Like she was afraid I’d forgotten the meaning of it.
Not quite, Cora, but I have a feeling I’m about to.
By the time I arrived at the inn for dinner, I was a goddamn mess. Sweat was running down my back from the heat, even after changing my shirt twice. I’d changed my mind three times on whether to bring flowers for Cora, doubling back to the house at the last minute to grab them after I firmly decided to leave them at home.
When I finally arrived, I was a solid twenty minutes late and probably looked like a psychopath from all the sweat and the mangled flowers in my hand.
But all of this was forgotten the moment the door opened, and Cora greeted me.
“Jesus,” I cursed, giving her a once-over before she even had the chance to say hi. “You look insane.”
“Insane is good?” she asked, pink staining her cheeks.
