Page 8 of Through The Woods

In his place was a temperamental monster. The insidiousness was subtle and his skill at hiding it was better than the mob. Once I’d sobered up enough to see how bad things had gotten, it was too late. The man I loved had been taken over by addiction.

I’d known that cocaine use was highest among college-aged young adults and had always made the conscious decision to stay away from it and weed, hadn’t I? I learned much later that marijuana might’ve been the best choice for me back then. At least it would’ve diminished the stress over my grades.

So, I made excuses for him—I said I’d never put up with abuse; then again, I also said I’d never do drugs. It was a bit like a lobster in a pot of water that was slowly getting hotter. By the time the lobster realized that something was wrong, it was too late—the damn thing had been boiled alive.

There weren’t any shades of gray when it came to my relationship with Clint either. I’d seen enough over the years to know that I was firmly ensconced in ‘accomplice territory.’

If the cops ever caught on to his illegal activities, I was going down as well.

I noticed the owner of the shop watching me suspiciously, so I moved over a few buildings before sinking down onto the sidewalk.

The breeze picked up again and the chair rolled a few feet to the left before coming to a stop. I’d never wanted to be an inanimate object more than I did in that exact moment.

A drop of crimson hit the sidewalk between my legs, quickly followed by another. I stared at it in confusion until I realized it was coming from my nose. Again. I wiped at it with the back of my hand. Instead of being concerned, it just made me crave another hit.

This had to be rock bottom. My life had become a vicious circle of white snow and blood red reminders that I needed a fix. I was headed nowhere—scratch that. I was headed toward my imminent death, yet I was too far gone to stop now.

My mind no longer raced with thoughts of ‘coulda, woulda, shoulda.’ It was wholly occupied only with thoughts of the next bump.

The most pathetic part was that I was friggin’ content to continue living like this. At some point over the last few weeks, I’d reached acceptance. I was just like that chair, letting outside circumstances move me any which way they pleased.

It’d been so long since I’d made up my own mind on anything—so long since I wasn’t under the influence of either cocaine or Clint.

I told myself I was smarter than the drug; convinced myself that I could handle it. Instead, I was completely powerless against it all.

I stood up and pinched my nostrils closed in a poor attempt to stop the bleeding. I inhaled through my mouth and immediately began coughing as the blood ran down the back of my throat.

The chair continued its path across the parking lot, not even stopping to say goodbye.

Lucky chair.

It probably didn’t have a significant other, prone to murderous rages, waiting on it at home.

Fir tree

The first thing I noticed when I turned the corner onto our street was that the house was dark. I took a hesitant step closer before I noticed the second thing—Clint’s truck wasn’t parked in the driveway.

It didn’t matter what time of day it was; the house was always lit up like a runway. A beacon on the hill in Boulder, shining its light to lost junkies in need of a fix. I looked up and down the street, waiting to hear the deep rumble of his truck, but it remained empty.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

I debated my options. I could either wait on the front porch for my boyfriend to show up, or I could put on my big girl panties and go inside to wait.

I swallowed hard, the copper taste still heavy on my tongue, and pulled the house key from my purse. The lock stuck as I turned it and I had to throw my shoulder into the door as I forced it open.

I almost fell headfirst into the living room floor, barely managing to catch myself at the last possible second. I shakily stood up and closed the door behind me; making sure it was locked in the process.

The house was silent and I laughed to myself. “Stupid, Neve. Getting scared over not—”

A hand clamped down over my mouth and spun me around, shoving my face up against the wall. A scream ripped from my throat as the hand tightened around my jaw, squeezing it until I felt like it would shatter.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch. Where is it?”

The voice was deep, but muffled, and I wondered if the person was wearing a ski mask like they did in the movies.

He slammed my head roughly against the wall. “I’m giving you one more chance. Where is it?”

---