― 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏.
❝ no, i am not nice or lovely.
i am just a pair of shaky hands
and an empty body
numbed by pills.
please don't think i am more.
i don't know if i am. ❞
or, in whic...
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BEYOND THIS ILLUSION (book one). °• CHAPTER ONE •°
" KEEP THINKING THERE'S HOPE FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME. "
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THE CAR RADIO WAS SOFTLY PLAYING SOME STUPID, SOFT MUSIC THAT MADE IDA WANT TO PLUG HER EARS.Or better yet - rip them off. Anything to stop that God-awful sound. The noise was literally piercing, it was so sharp. She sighed deeply and pressed her forehead against the reverberating window of the car door. It doesn't ease her ever-growing, pounding migraine. She can feel the blood rushing through her veins and can almost hear her heart beating. It didn't make anything better. Ida's hands were shaking. She felt nauseous and she was much more anxious, irritable, and depressed than usual. The music alone made her want to bash her head through the window or scream other than stop herself from hearing it. But she knew exactly what these were. All of the normal signs of withdrawal symptoms.
"Can you turn that shit off?!" Ida snapped out loud bitterly. Her voice almost matched a dog who barked after they were backed into a corner. Her leg was bouncing, her hand shaking from where it was cupped over her knee. It was clear that Ida was afraid, but she wasn't about to bite the throat of someone in her family that she truly loved. Maybe only nip.
Willow Tucker didn't sigh, didn't scoff, didn't shake her head in dismay. She only quickly retracted her hand from the wheel so she could turn the knob connecting to the radio so the tune faded into almost nothing. She's done that a lot, recently. Ignore Ida and comply with something she wanted just to shut her up. Her father did the same. So did her little sister. It was as if Ida was now a burden for them to carry, or worse, a fly buzzing around their home that they couldn't catch with the fly swatter.
Maybe that's why Ida's parents gave her a final offer: Go to rehab, or leave.
It seems like an easy decision. No one wanted to be a homeless addict. It was dangerous, with too many risks, and Ida wasn't prepared for it. But she absolutely, positively did not want to go to a rehab center either. She wanted to go back to school. She wanted to rewind her past and do something different. Maybe Ida should have stayed home and faked being sick that day. Maybe she should have grabbed her wallet and paid for lunch instead. Then she would have had something for her attacker to find in her bag.
Unfortunately, that wasn't one of her two options because there was no redo button. Ida can't go back. She can't go to school anymore. She can't continue her passion because every fast movement caused more and more pain. So, here she was, grumpily in the backseat of a car on her way to a facility that was supposed to help her. Ida was permanently stuck in what felt like an endless nightmare. It just kept going, and going, and getting worse, and wouldn't stop. The only thing that got her through the days was holding a paintbrush. Barely.
