Addicted To You .L.S.

Two.

Now (June)

"So, today's the big day," Dr. Charles says. I look across the desk. From her shiny pumps to her tasteful, "natural" makeup not a hair was out of place on her. When I met Dr. Charles, all I wanted to do was mess her up. Slip the glasses down her nose, crush one of those perfectly pressed French cuffs. Tear into that neat, orderly mask and get down to the grit, the chaos.
Chaos has no place in recovery, Dr.
Charles would say. But I craved it.
Sometimes even more then Oxy.
That's what happens when you're trapped by clean white walls, endless therapy sessions, and piped-up by new-age music for three months. The order and rules get to you, make you want to screw up just for the messiness of it.
But I can't afford that. Not now. Freedom's so close I can almost taste it.
"I guess," I say when I realise Dr. Charles is waiting for an answer. She's big on getting answers to her non questions.
"Are you nervous?" She asks.
"No." It's the truth. I can count on one hand how many times I've been honest with her. Including this one. Three months of lying is exhausting, even if it's necessary.
"There's no shame in being nervous," Dr. Charles says. "It's a natural feeling, given the circumstances."
Of course, when I finally do tell her the truth, she doesn't believe me.
Story of my life.
"It's a little scary..." I let my voice go reluctant, and Dr. Charles's neutral therapist mask almost slips at the prospect of a confession. Getting me to open up it like pulling teeth. I can tell it bugs her. One time she asked me to got through the night of Harry's murder, and I knocked over the coffee table. Glass shattering all over all over as I tried to get away from her—just another thing I've destroyed in Harry's name.

Dr. Charles stares like she's trying to see through me. I stare back. She may have her therapist mask, but I have my "I'm a drug addict" face. She can't ignore that, because deep down, buried underneath all the other things (crippled, broken, scarred and grieving) I am a drug addict—always will be. Dr. Charles understands that I know this about myself. That I've accepted it.
She thinks she's the one responsible for my changes from tagging to recovery, but she's not. She doesn't get to take credit for that.
So I stare her down. And finally she breaks the eye contact and looks at her portfolio, writing a few new notes.
"You've made tremendous progress in the time you've spent here, Louis. There will be challenges as you adjust to your drug-free life, but I'm confident that with the therapist your parents have arranged for you and your commitment to your recovery, you'll succeed."
"Sounds like a plan."
She shuffles some papers and just when I think I'm free and clear, she drops the bomb: "Before we go downstairs, I'd like to talk to you a little more. About Harry."
She looks up at me, carefully monitoring my response. Waiting to see if I'll break her new coffee table. (It's wood this time—I guess she figured she needed something sturdier.)
I can't stop it: the way my lips tighten up and my heart beat this's through my ears. I force my self to breath in and out through my nose like in yoga, relaxing my mouth. I can't slip up. Not now. Not when I'm so close to getting out.
"What about Harry?" My voice is steady, I want to pat myself on the back.
"We haven't talked about him in a while." She's still watching me. Waiting for me to freak, like I have every time she's forced this. "Going home is a big adjustment. A lot of memories will come up and I need to make sure you're in the right frame of mind to deal without them..." She tugs at her left cuff.

This is another on of her tactics. Dr. Charles likes to make me finish her sentences. Own up to my mistakes and faults. "Without an Oxy binge?" I say.
She nods. "Harry and his murder are triggers. It's important you are aware of that. That you're prepared for the challenges his memory might bring up—the guilt."
I have to stifle my knee-jerk response. The one that screams, "his murder wasn't about drugs!"
It was no use. No one will believe the truth. No one will believe me. Not with the evidence in front of them. That fucking in the mask covered his bases—he'd knew I'd never noticed the drugs planted on me, not after he shot Harry and knocked me out. My mom called in every favour imaginable to get me in rehab to deal with my supposed relapse instead of getting charged for possession.

Dr. Charles smiles at me. It's both bland and encouraging, a warring twist of pink lipstick.
This is my final test; I have to be careful with my words. They're my ticket out of here. But it's hard, almost impossible, to keep my voice from shaking, to stop the memories from coming creeping back. Of Harry, laughing with me that morning, both of us unaware that he'd end with the day.

"I loved Harry," I say. I've practiced this a thousand times, but it can't sound rehearsed. "And his murder is something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life. But Harry would want me to move on. To be happy. And he'd want me to stay clean. So I'm going to do that."
"And what about his killer?" Dr. Charles asks. "Do you feel ready to talk to the police about what you might know?"
"I loved Harry," I say again, and this time my voice does shake. This time it's the truth and nothing but. "And if I knew who killed him, I'd be screaming his name at the top of my lungs. But he was wearing a mask. I don't know who it was."
Dr. Charles leans back and examines me like I'm a fish in a bowl. I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep it from trembling. I keep my breathing steady like I'm holding a hard yoga pose and have to power through it.
"He was my best friend," I say. "Don't you think I know how much I screwed up? I barely sleep sometimes, thinking about what I could've done differently that night. How I could've stoped it. How it's my fault. I know that. I just have to learn to live with it."

This is the truth.
The guilt—it's real. It just doesn't come from the place Dr. Charles thinks it does. It's my fault. For not stopping him. For not asking more questions. For letting him act like the newspaper was something to keep top secret. For slowing his lead, like always. For not being faster. For being crippled, unable to run or fight or do anything to protect him.
"I'd be happy to talk to Detective James again," I mumble. "But he doesn't think I'm the most reliable witness."
"Do you blame him?" Dr. Charles asks.
"He's just doing his job." The lie feels like glass on my gums, the words grinding through my skin. Hating Detective James is like second nature at this point. If only he'd listened to me...

But I can't think about that now. I've got to focus. Harry's killer is still out there. And Detective James isn't going to find him.

"I know going home with be hard, but I feel like you've given me the tools to handle everything way better than I used to."

Dr. Charles smiles, relief hits me like a two-by-four. She's finally buying it.
"I'm delighted to hear that. I know we've had a rocky start, Louis. But our last few sessions, you've really had a more positive outlook. And that's very important with everything that's ahead of you. Recovery is not easy and the work never stops," she checks her watch. "Your parents should be here any minute. How about I take you to the waiting room?"
"Okay."

We walk in silence down the corridor, past the group session going on in the rec room. That circle of chairs has been hell for the past three months. To sit there and share with people I barely know has been excruciating. I've spent every minute lying my ass off.

"They must be running late," Dr. Charles when we get to the empty waiting room.
Right. Late.
She's either forgetting our last strained family day session or she honestly believes the best of people.
I don't.
Which is why I wonder if my parents are late. Or if they're just not coming.