Page 36 of Taste of Addiction

I stumble into the bathroom and glance up into the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin pale and sweaty. I don’t feel warm. I feel the opposite. I splash some cold water onto my face to wake myself up from my haze. But that’s what does it. My stomach flips, and I feel the rising acid first. I double over the sink and brace myself on my outstretched hands. Then the rolling and rumbling and—

“Ahhh,” I retch.

Yellow chunks fly from my throat, collecting in the bottom of the sink. I don’t want to look. But I do. I can’tnotlook.

I jerk forward four more times until everything in my stomach is expelled.

I run the water and pray it all goes down. I don’t want to have to wipe it out. I don’t want to touch it.

I sit on the closed toilet seat, my hands resting in my lap. My head pulses and I know that the relief I just swallowed moments before is now trapped in the contents I threw up.

I hobble into the bedroom and find my pill bottle. I swallow two more. Two more to take the edge off this headache. I lean my hip against the desk and lose my balance, falling into the chair. I cry out as I plummet to the floor, and my vision spots with flashes of light, then everything fades to black.

* * *

“Miss McFee, Miss McFee, you’re worrying me.”

I open my eyes to Owen hovering over me on the bed. Malcolm is beside him. Austin is hovering in back, his phone to his ear. I sit up on the bed and rub at my forehead. I reach for my bottled water with a shaky hand. Owen helps me unscrew the cap, and I manage to take a swig.

My head feels so much better and for that I am relieved. “I’m fine. I think my migraine just got so bad last night that I must have missed a step and fallen.”

I can hear Austin in the background talking to Graham, I assume. He walks closer to me and hands me the phone. I look up in confusion and he mouths, “Graham.” I nod and take the device.

“Hello.”

“Sweetheart, I was so worried about you. Austin came to check on you when he heard a thump and found you lying on the floor. What happened?”

I glance at the clock and see that it is almost eight. I must have been out of it for a while. “I think I‘m just getting some tension headaches. Probably from not getting as much caffeine as I’m used to back at home.”

“Dr. Saber is on vacation for another day. As soon as he is back in town, I’m having him check you out. If he needs to outsource to a specialist, so be it. My men have been telling me your headaches seem to be getting worse. I’m sorry you are dealing with this, baby. We’ll come up with a solution.”

I really do not want to see a doctor. There hasn’t been a doctor to help me with my shoulder pain, so why would one help me with my headaches? Seems pointless, but there is no stopping Graham when he gets an idea in his head. I imagine he is stressed out over me right now. “Okay. Thank you.”

I end the call and shoo everyone out of the room. I really need some space. I want to shower and get ready for the day. I have a crazy amount of work to do on my article, and I haven’t even started writing it. Do I have a title? Nope. A clear objective? Nope. Anything that will make Dr. Williams happy? Not sure, but definitely leaning toward a “no.”

Will I give up hope? No.

Sometimes my best writing comes from unexpected places, deep within the caverns of my soul. The loss of hope is simply my own fear of failure.

I log in to my secret email account—the one I used to email drugging victims from the agency. I am losing track of how many accounts I have created within a few months. Seems like this is just the normal territory for any investigative journalist. I like having an avenue though for people to reach out to me and be able to share their stories without the stigma. We all deserve to have a voice, especially women who often get overshadowed by a male-dominated society.

There are six new emails, all from accounts that are unknown and not registered under a specific name. I shuffle through each one and add my own label of Victim # ___ to separate their testimonies. I read the accounts of their experiences through their own eyes and shudder over the emotional toll each girl went through. Even if the case goes to trial, there is nowhere in the courtroom that these words would be allowed to be expressed.

They are raw. They are real. They are reflective.

I copy and paste the quotes that hurt my heart the most and include each woman’s assigned victim number. We are more than a number. But yet, the number makes it even more…effective. As if using one makes it clear that society sees us this way. Bodiless. Mindless.

“I woke up to a stranger standing over me.” -Victim #1

“I felt helpless.” -Victim #2

“I worried what my parents would think if they knew I was dating an older man for money. No one would believe me if I cried victim to a completely different crime. But defending lawyers would dig up every skeleton from every one of my closets.” -Victim #3

“I woke up in a hospital bed. Alone. I was at my lowest.” -Victim #4

“I am nothing. Just a shell of who I once was. With a mind full of what-ifs and regrets.” -Victim #5

“I may not have been raped. But I was assaulted. Taking away my memory is a crime. I never had a drug in my system until that night. Now I have a craving for more.” -Victim #6

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