28 year old Cassius Carter had his life made as a successful music producer. All had gone well in his life except for when it came to love and relationships. Nothing seemed certain. But that all changes in a matter of time, in the most unexpected wa...
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The brisk March wind bit at Joey's skin as he stood outside the rehab center, the weight of the last two months pressing down on him like the thick clouds overhead.
The world outside the hospital felt both foreign and familiar—he had been locked away from it for too long. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, the cool air doing little to distract him from the gnawing anxiety that had settled in his gut since the shooting.
The rehab center was a sterile, cold place, but at least it wasn't the hospital. Here, Joey was surrounded by others who understood, who had seen the same demons. But even that didn't make the truth easier to swallow: he was an addict.
He was here because his life had spiraled out of control, the image he had crafted as the cool, successful rapper crumbling under the weight of the drugs he had relied on to keep it intact.
As Joey walked down the sidewalk towards the small diner nearby, his father was waiting, leaning against his car, his face as impassive as ever. He looked at Joey with those same intense eyes, the kind that seemed to see right through him.
"My boy!" Clifford grinned with excitement, pushing off from the car. "You look healthy."
Joey nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet. His legs still felt shaky, like they were remembering how to work after months of being confined to a bed or group therapy chairs. The two walked silently into the diner, the bell above the door jingling softly as they entered.
Inside, the smell of brunch and burnt coffee hung in the air. They slid into a booth by the window, and the waitress—a tired-looking woman in her fifties—dropped menus in front of them without a word. Joey barely glanced at his, too focused on the thoughts racing through his head.
Clifford finally broke the silence, his voice gruff but softer than usual. "How you feelin'?"
Joey exhaled slowly, staring at his hands. "Better, I guess. I don't know. I'm outside, in public, so that's gotta be worth something."
Clifford nodded but didn't push for more. He never was the type to pry, but Joey could feel the weight of his father's gaze on him, waiting for him to open up.
Joey swallowed, the words thick in his throat. "I, uh... I don't really know how to explain it. The drugs, they just...they helped me. At first, it was just to get through the day, you know? There's so much pressure—being on top, staying relevant, keeping up with the image. I thought if I could just keep going, it would all work itself out."
Clifford's brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, letting Joey talk.
"I just wanted to be numb. Numb to all of it—the expectations, the fear of failing, the competition, all of that. The drugs made me feel like I could handle it, like I could be the person everyone expected me to be without breaking."
