Paper Stars

1

Charlotte Hollins
Before --- 3 months ago

My mind is a prison, entrapped with thick steel bars that surround the single thought engulfing my consciousness. It's a rhythm, a pulse that incessantly thuds against the inside of my skull. It's the only thing I can focus on.

IneeditIneedityouhavenoideahowmuchIneedit.

Aunt Joan showed up at my dorm room two days ago, announcing her arrival with three sharp raps on the door. Within seconds of me unlocking the door, she was picking my side of the room apart bit by bit, uplifting the mattress and frantically ruffling through my drawers, demanding, "Where is it?! Where is it?!" until she found my purse. A quick flip upside down to empty it of it's contents, and three shiny orange bottles of prescription medication fell out amongst the clutter.

NeedneedneedI'mgoingtodiewithoutthemyoudon'tunderstand.

She sat me down and spoke with a harsh, cold voice, so different from the soft, motherly tone she uses so often. I couldn't pay attention to a word she said; I was too busy casting nervous glances at the pills and tapping my fingers in my lap, itching to reach for them.

Youcan'ttakeitawayfrommenotasecondtimepleaseIneedthem.

Aunt Joan gave me a choice. "You're an adult now, so it's time to make your own decisions. Which is it gonna be?"
I made the wrong choice. I should have never asked to get locked up in here again.
Most people don't see the difference between rehab centers and hospitals. That's because they've never been to both. A rehab center smells like obsession, like cold sweat and twitching eyes and fluorescent lights that cast a ghastly light on everybody below. A hospital smells like clean floors and anti-biotics, of life and death. A hospital isn't a prison.
The first stage is detox. You lay in your uncomfortable bed with the hard mattress and you fold your arms tight around your stomach. You try not to vomit into the bucket that they put beside you, because you know that if you do you won't be able to stop until all that's coming up is acidic bile. Your entire body is drenched in shivering sweat and you tremble like a leaf in the wind. You feel like a thousand bugs are trying to enter your brain all at once to tear you to pieces. Your skin feels cold to the touch but your insides feel so hot that you think they might burst, and when the nurse comes in to check on you, all that she'll find is a splatter of blood and dripping organs where a person used to be.
The second stage is rehab. They'll sit you down next to people just as messed up as you and force you to confide in them. "Talking about it helps," they'll say, but they're lying. All it does is make it worse. All it does is imprint your words into your brain permanently, so that you have no chance of forgetting just how good it used to feel.
The third stage is aftercare. Once you're expelled from their prison, they expect you to continue to attend support groups and therapy sessions to prevent relapse. They tell you that these people will listen, these people will care, these people will make you realize that maybe you can live without the drugs. Maybe you never needed them. What they don't know is that their support groups and therapy sessions don't do shit. If they did, I wouldn't be back for the second time.

pleasepleasepleaseIcan'tdothisagainIcan'tgothroughthisagainjustgivethembackandletmebe

They gave me the same room as last time. They didn't tell me, but I can recognize it, even after four years. The floorboards creak in the center of the room and there's old notches made into the bedframe where an admit counted her days. The mattress still has the slice where the last girl stored weed that one of the admits smuggled in. I know because I'm the one who made the slice.

JustonewouldbeenoughjusttocalmmymindpleaseIonlyneedone.

Dr. Rodriguez was disappointed to see me again. She sat me down for a session when I first came in, when my skin was already beginning to sweat from withdrawal. "Why do you think you're here, Charlie?" she asked, her clipboard posed on her knee.

Because Fletcher snitched.
Fletcher told you when I begged him to keep his best friend's worst secret.
"We're all here to help you, but it won't do you any good unless you want to get better."
I was doing just fine on my own.
Just
leave
me
be.