Page 37 of Taste of Addiction

I read Victim #6’s statement and frown. How horrible! Did the dose she received cause her to have an addiction? That is so wrong. I am angry. Raging. All of these women have lasting effects from that one night where they were used as human test dummies. Expendable in the eyes of evil men.

My mind drifts to Resa, remembering her terrorized face the night she busted through the door of the townhouse. She was in shock. I know she left school, but I still want her to know that I’m thinking of her. Picking up my phone, I dial her number and hope she has enough strength to answer it.

“Hi, Angie.”

“Resa, so good to hear your voice.” The sniffles start and I know she’s crying. “I didn’t call to make things worse for you. I just wanted to reach out and let you know that I’m here for you if you ever want to talk.” Despite not being drugged, she is a victim too.

“I’m doing better each day,” she says with a whimper. “I just have a lot of nightmares. Being chased. Running… I close my eyes and I remember those moments of utter petrified fear.”

“I’m very familiar with nightmares, Resa. And they suck.”

“Sure do.”

“Things are getting crazy here with druggings and girls being hurt. I’m so glad you are coping with your scare as well as you can.”

“I resisted therapy for so long. Thought I could do life without it. But I was wrong. So wrong. It has been monumental.”

“Great news.” I smile. I’m so glad she is getting the help she needs. The brain can do crazy things—fragmenting memories and distorting the truth. Having a support system is exactly what Resa needs.

We hang up and I try to focus my energy toward doing something worthwhile. I open up my journalism software that allows me to see what my article could look like in print. I title it, “A Victim’s Journey.” I may not be able to find the ring leaders in time for the due date for my assignment for Dr. Williams, but at least I can produce a worthwhile article that still has investigative elements on a meaningful topic. I just hope it is enough to pass with the degree I have been longing for.

As for the internship? I still can prove myself postgraduation. I just need to get to graduation first.

I check my school email and see that Dr. Williams messaged me about seeing my article draft on Monday. The email is dated back a week ago. I just forgot to check my account. Well, at least I now know how I am spending my Sunday. I have a crazy amount of notes to add into my article, as well as all of the work I typed out yesterday.

This is just a draft. So, all of the polishing details can wait until the final hand-in period. Having little to no parameters for an assignment is daunting, but this is how most senior undergrad projects seem to be. A true test to how we will be able to handle the real-world workforce tasks.

I grab my flash drive and save my work. When my eyes start to twitch from the screen’s light, I lie down in bed to close my eyes for a few minutes. It is now ten o’clock, and I feel the telltale signs of a headache brewing. I reach for my purse, and the movement causes my stomach to cramp with pain. I massage my soft abdomen and frown at how bad my fingernails look. I hold them up to examine their blueish color under the nail bed. Weird.

Maybe all of these occurrences are my body’s way of telling me it wants to go back to Portland. I take out a couple of the prescription pills Owen gave me and swallow two. Maybe Dr. Saber will be able to help me—maybe even prescribe something more powerful.

There is a knock at the door, and I open it to find Collins standing in the entrance.

“Ma’am, it’s time to go back to Portland.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Leave all of your stuff. I’ll have someone pack everything up for you—even your new wardrobe items. It can get delivered to your townhouse later this afternoon.”

“Okay, but I need my electronics and my purse.”

He nods and waits for me in the hallway. I bend to get my phone and laptop and drift forward into the end table. The lamp shakes from me bracing myself with an outstretched arm. Shit. I am so exhausted.

Collins escorts me outside, and I turn back to the house to look at it. It was my home for over a week, and a tiny part of me will miss it.

“Do you mind if I run up to the field just to take one more look?”

Collins gives me a weak smile and a nod. I take off in a slow jog, and he follows behind me. I hate running, but feeling the cold air beat against my flushed skin takes the edge off my headache or at least provides me a distraction from the pain.

When I get to the field, I look up at the sky and breathe in the clean smell of the fresh pine. I will miss my sanctuary, my place to rest and clear my head. Maybe I can find a substitute in Portland—perhaps a spot near the river that is less frequented by joggers and dog walkers. The typical park I love is now tainted with the memory of me breaking Zander’s heart. Going there won’t ever feel the same.

I pat the ground with three taps. Then I stand up and make my way over to Collins who is waiting for me at the tree line.

“I think I’m ready now,” I say softly.

He doesn’t waste his breath with any words. I can tell he understands me and my eccentric need to find closure with a farewell goodbye.

We walk back to the front of the house where the car is idling. Owen and Austin are loading up bags of my clothes and hygiene products that must have been bought just for me and for my purpose of staying here. I was definitely gone longer than I’d expected.

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