Tragic Love (20 page)

Delilah begins to sob all over again into Jake’s shirt as Reggie stands, clapping me on the back.

“But as you may know, Presley has a long road ahead of her. I’ve seen many cases just like this where they wheel the patient back in on a stretcher, only this time they’re taking them to the morgue instead of the ER.” A cold chill runs down my spine, knowing how close Presley was to being taken to the morgue. “Have you considered any treatment options for her?”

“Yes. We have a flight booked tomorrow morning to go to Sunny Ridges Rehabilitation in Memphis. Actually, before this happened, she was fully prepared to go. I don’t understand why she would do this.” I wonder out loud, trying to grasp any concept of her actions. It makes no sense to me why she would risk her life when she said she was ready to go to rehab. She was ready to survive.

“Drake, this is very common for a user to get one last high before they commit to the steps of rehab, knowing how challenging it will be. Luckily for Presley, someone was able to find her when they did. Otherwise, you would be talking to the funeral home instead of me.”

I can’t hear anymore of this morbid shit. I need to feel her in my arms and brush my lips to her soft skin. I need to know she’s alive, see her brown eyes, full of life, staring back at me. “Can I see her?”

“Of course. We’ve moved her to a room where she will stay overnight for observation. I’ll alert the staff to have her discharged in time to be at the airport for her flight.”

I follow the doctor out of the waiting room and to the elevator. We ride to the third floor and then walk down a long, dreary corridor until he stops just outside the door. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils.

Now, I’m standing alone in front of her door, scared as shit to look at her. I’ve been dying to see her, but now I’m afraid of whom I will encounter. Will she be angry? Will she admit she was trying to kill herself? Will she resent me for saving her life? Questions bounce around in my head like a damn rubber ball on hard cement, yet there’s only one way to find out. Expelling a deep breath, I push open the door and slowly walk into the room. There she is, my love, lying in a big hospital bed cocooned in blankets.

She is sleeping, but after staring at her chest steadily moving up and down, I know she’s alive, breathing.

I reach up and run my warm hands across her forehead and then lean down to kiss her soft, salty skin. It’s cold and ghostly white. Her eyes flutter open and attach to mine. The water in my eyes begins to bubble up when I see the life in hers staring back at mine.

I fall forward, unable to stand there and look at her anymore. I need to feel her in my arms. I need to hold her and let her know how important she is to me.

Ever so gently, I pick up her small body and pull her up into my arms. She immediately tucks herself in, nestling her head into my chest.

“Thank you, God,” I whisper into her hair.

Small sobs escape past her lips and the tremors from crying travel up her body. We don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear anything other than the breaths coming from her chest and the steady thumps of her beating heart.

I hold her all night, keeping her tight in my arms until the sun comes up and the light filters through the shades. The next few months of our relationship are going to be our biggest obstacles yet to overcome, but I have to believe with all the love I have for her that she will get through this and come back to me.

Chapter 13

Presley

Week One:

This is bullshit.

I’ve been here three freaking days before I finally see a therapist. I could care less what his name is or what he wants my treatment plan to be. He’s a douche and I’m too sick to give a rat’s ass.

Dr. Douche suggested I write down my thoughts—at least once a week—in the future I can look back at my time spent here and be proud of what I will accomplish. I think it’s stupid. My body feels like it’s being ripped to shreds from the inside out and this fucker wants me to journal my feelings. Well, feel this asshole because I’m flipping you off right now!

Week Two:

I am living this hell on earth and I can’t even pick up a pen without being in agony.

Nurse fucking Ratched pounds on the door at six-thirty every morning to get us up for breakfast and group therapy. I have yet to say anything to anyone. I just want to do my ninety days and go home. I want to see Drake and feel his arms around me, but mostly, I want to see Carter.

He’s the only one who knows how to take the pain away. I hate Carter for giving me the first injection and letting me get hooked on the poison I need to survive. Yet there is a part of me that absolutely loves Carter. He can take all the pain away with a single, solitary pinch of a needle.

I wonder if he knows what happened to me. I wonder if he’s still alive. As soon as Drake finds out it was Carter who got me messed up with heroin I’m sure the Evans boys will go after him. Anyway, I can’t think of that because it will make the rest of my time here impossible.

The medicine they give you to take the edge off your detox symptoms is a joke. The urge is a living, breathing monster inside of me. And speaking of monster, yeah, I still have those haunting me every time I close my eyes. Have I mentioned this journaling thing is bullshit?

Drake

The first snow storm hits just two weeks into fall. The ground is dusted with white as snowflakes flitter from the sky. However, the early snow is the last thing on my mind.

It’s been two weeks since Presley left for rehab. Two weeks since I had to witness the worst thing I’ve ever seen growing up in Sulfur Heights, and that’s saying something. Presley is constantly on my mind. It’s hard to keep my head in the game at work wondering about her recovery and how she is doing. I see her lifeless sometimes in my dreams, the gaunt expression of her dying eyes causes me to jolt awake, dripping with sweat. I don’t have dreams or should I say nightmares like that every night, but when I do, it’s impossible to fall back asleep.

Hours at the plant have reduced dramatically because they’re going through layoffs in order to reduce expense. Fortunately, I still have a job, but I’m working half as much. The upside is I get more time to spend with Mia, but the bills are piling and I don’t know how long I can afford to live in the apartment. I’ve had to take a big chunk of my savings to pay for Presley’s treatment and the money I built up for the last couple of years is reduced to more than half. Presley is worth it, though. I would spend every last cent I had to make sure her and Mia are cared for.

Reggie still needs me to work on some weekend nights, but it’s not consistent. Besides, as much as I love to work at the bar, it’s hard being away from Mia during the night. Mrs. Field has been a Godsend. She watches Mia while I’m at work during the day and refuses to accept my money. Then she will take Mia overnight on the weekends if I’m needed at the bar. Mrs. Fields was devastated when I told her what happened to Presley and she felt somewhat guilty, thinking there was more she could have done. I don’t know what I would do without her. I explained it was just as much a shock to the rest of us and told her to keep faith that Presley is on the road to recovery.

As I sit in the crane at the steel recycling plant, I count down the days until I can see my love. It’s going to be the hardest two months of my life. Visitors are not allowed to see the patient until they’ve passed sixty days of treatment. Once two months has passed, you go to a family session with the therapist. We are Presley’s only family, but she only requested me to come.

I miss her so much. I wonder constantly how she’s doing. I can’t help thinking how closely related Presley’s situation is to my birth mother’s. From the little I remember from her, she acted the same way Presley did with the mood swings and detachment from everything around her. She didn’t show any love toward me and it sickens me to know Presley was doing the exact same thing with Mia. I was too young to understand what was happening to my mother, but I know I’ve seen it again when Presley stirred up old memories, bringing them to surface.

Plus, when Mrs. Evans took me in, she had a revolving door of junkies who were strung out, needing to get their next fix. It pisses me off even more that no one caught onto Presley’s behavior, especially me. I’m the person who saw her the most and I simply ignored it, too angry with her to really see the bigger picture.

I have no experience with the feeling of being high on drugs. After everything that went down, the bitter feelings toward my own mother and my need to keep in control of my life, I sought out advice from a professional. I need to understand what I’m getting myself into, what I can expect from Presley once she’s home.

Though my hours at the plant were reduced, my benefits are still in force. Otherwise, there would be no way I could pay for any of this. The doctor told me, currently she’s going through hell as the pain of withdrawal is coursing its way through her body, but it’s the dependence on the drug that is going to be the hardest obstacle to overcome. She will need to complete intense therapy to find a coping mechanism for the triggers of her depression. Robert is the biggest trigger of all. I hope she can talk about it, then again, I hope she can’t. No matter what happens I might lose someone I love.

The day Delilah and Presley left, Reggie sat us down and told us it’s very possible he could suffer the consequences of what he did to Robert. He said it is best for Presley to talk about what happened to her, and if she talks about her rescue, the fact that Reggie killed Robert will more than likely come to light.

Darcie was insanely angry. I know she could never survive without Reggie. Even though Robert is dead, I’ve heard her in the middle of the night; she’s still plagued with nightmares and if Reggie were to go to jail, Darcie would slowly die. He is her life line. Just like Presley is mine.

Presley

Week Three:

I surpassed three weeks in treatment and let me tell you, it been the worst three weeks of my life. When Robert held me captive, handcuffed and bruised on a bed, I thought then it was the worst pain I could even experience, but that was until I came to rehab.

Heroin is an evil witch. She has her grips wrapped so tightly around my brain I’m constantly battling with her to let me go. Heroin can be your best friend. She’ll comfort you; hold your hand while you run through the motions before injecting her into your body, allowing her to take all your troubles away.

Right now, though, she’s being an evil witch. She is making my life unbearable and is refusing to let me give her up. I compare heroin to a villain at the end of a horror movie. No matter what you do—decapitate, light them on fire, shoot them witha thousand bullets—they refuse to die. Heroin is the villain who will always get up and slowly stalk her way back into your brain. I’ve had some good days without her, but mostly they’ve been hell. Damn evil witch!

Group therapy is a joke, if I’ve ever seen one. I have yet to speak, I just don’t feel comfortable, and frankly, I’m tired of listening to people’s sob stories. They have no idea what real pain and loss consists of. How it can change your life in a single second, making everything you’ve ever known spiral out of control.

Most of the people here are trust fund babies who got involved in drugs because they were bored. I’ve lived through death, abandonment, torture and out of all these people, I’m the one who should be sobbing like a baby because my life is truly fucked up, not theirs. When they get out of here, they will go back to the mountain of Daddy’s cash, Mercedes and mansions. I hate every single one of them!

Week Four:

Last week, I had a few bad days. My mood was all over the place and I was ready to walk out, especially after group therapy. Today, my therapist, Dr. Garner, finally asked me the question I’ve been dreading to answer. He may have asked it in the previous meetings, but I was more concerned about keeping myself from screaming in his face.

Out comes that question, “What are your triggers for your depression, Presley?” It was hard, considering the vast amount of secrets living inside me, but I knew I needed to start speaking. After four weeks in this place, I couldn’t sit in his office and tell him nothing. I’m here to heal. I’m ready to go home and I’m ready to be with Drake. The only way that will happen is if I start talking.

Reluctantly, that’s what I did. I started at the beginning. Before Sulfur Heights was even in the picture, back when my life was simple. Back when I had the love of my parents.

I begin with my previous experience in therapy. I started explaining to Dr. Garner about my dealings with depression and anorexia. I don’t know why I have so many issues with sadness. I’ve always had the feeling of loneliness living in the back of my mind, but it’s when it got to be impossible to deal with that I found another way to take that feeling away.

When I was six, I started injuring myself—poking myself with a fork until I had little puncture holes on my wrists or holding my arm under hot water until my skin started to burn. Then, I soon realized those coping mechanisms leave marks and raise questions from my parents. So, at the age of ten I started to starve myself. Nothing was more painful to me than the feeling of an empty stomach. I welcomed the pain of hunger because it distracted me from the pain festering in my mind.

Dr. Garner said that was an unusual way of coping with depression because I didn’t have self image issues and I didn’t. I knew I wasn’t fat. I didn’t stare at myself in the mirror for hours, studying every single inch of my body. I only starved myself because I needed to feel pain. It helped suppress the invading dark thoughts and took them out of my mind. Hunger pains gave me a welcoming distraction. After three years of starving myself off and on, and with the help of Delilah, my parents caught on. My weight had diminished to less than ninety pounds and I was admitted for treatment.