Reprieve Read online

  Present: Day 0

  Past: Intervention

  Present: Detox: Day 2.

  Past: The Race

  Present: 10 Days Clean

  Past: Lies

  Present: 21 Days Clean

  Past: The Streets

  Present: 30 Days Clean

  Past: Sex Sells

  Present: 40 Days Clean

  Past: Thief

  Present: 42 Days Clean

  Past: First Time

  Present: 44 Days Clean

  Past: Just Ask

  Present: 50 Days Clean

  Past: Hate

  Present: 54 Days Clean

  Past: Roses

  Present: 54 Days Wasted

  Past: Fresh Meat

  Present: 55 Days Clean

  Past: A Woman

  Present: 58 Days Clean

  Past: The Moment

  Present: Day 58. Full Circle.

  Past/Passed

  Present: 60 Days Clean.

  Present: 61 Days Clean.

  Present: 61 Nights Clean

  Present: Day 65 Clean

  Present: 66 Days Clean

  Present: 72 Days Clean

  Present: 73 Days Clean

  Present: 80 Days Clean

  Present: 81 Days Clean

  Present: 81 Nights Clean

  Present: 90 Days Clean

  Present: 270 Days Clean

  Acknowledgements

  Reprieve

  Copyright 2015 A.E. Woodward

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Photography and cover design: Sara Eirew

  Edited by: Ryn Hughes

  Interior formatting by Pink Ink Designs

  If you or someone you know struggles with addiction, you’re not alone and there are people waiting to help you.

  Don’t waste another second and contact the National Council on Alcohol and Drug Dependence to start planning your recovery.

  It’s never too late.

  I THRASH AGAINST them as they pull me through the doors. Their hands are tightly secured under my arms but if I really wanted to make a break for it I could. But I don’t.

  Instead, we’re greeted by an entourage of professionals, some of them wearing white coats, some of them dressed like they just walked off Wall Street.

  Where the fuck am I?

  Actually, I know where I am. I remember the conversation very clearly. But the hours in the car have clouded my mind and the absence of anything familiar in my surroundings has me panicking. My stomach ties itself in knots and there’s a pungent taste in the back of my throat

  “I can’t do this!” I scream, attempting to plant my feet firmly against the ground. “I’ll die!” My voice near gives out. But the screaming doesn’t help. The pain and anguish begin festering. This is normally when I seek comfort . . . the only way I know how.

  I need it.

  I need it now.

  I scream something—anything. I can’t even make out what I’m saying. It sounds like a bunch of gibberish. I claw at my skin as it burns. They do their best to keep me from injuring myself, speaking to me in calm, low voices. How can they possibly be so calm? Don’t they know I’m dying?

  “I’ve changed my mind!”

  Tears spring free from my eyes and roll down my cheeks leaving behind rivers that divide my face into a broken landscape. Noise comes at me from all directions but I pick out the sound of sobbing to my immediate left and look over at my mother. She’s turned away from me. I can’t see her face but I can see her shoulders shudder, perfectly in rhythm with her dry throaty cries. They sound just like mine.

  My body collapses and they struggle to keep me from falling in a heap at their feet. The swirling emotions, paired with my less-than-great physical state, proves to be too much for me. My brain is in overdrive.

  I want this, don’t I?

  But, really, it doesn’t matter if I want it. It’s my only choice now.

  “Tegan.” A voice I don’t recognize cuts through the commotion surrounding me and I look up. “Tegan, you’re safe.”

  My eyes attempt to focus on his face, but it’s no use. The tears are flowing far too fast for me to see clearly. I hear hushed talking, my name thrown into the mix occasionally before my mother speaks again. “She agreed to this, just a few hours ago.” Her voice wavers.

  “Are you sure of that? Her response is pretty visceral.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But it doesn’t matter if she wants to or not. I have Medical Power of Attorney.”

  There is a rustling of papers as control of my life is passed from person to person and just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I can’t sense the tension thicken the air in the room.

  “Tegan?” the voice asks. “I’m going to need you to come with me and answer a few questions.”

  My eyes clearing, I glare at him. “What kind of questions?” The words break free from between my teeth, hissing at him as the sadness slowly dissipates. This is good for me, but not so good for everyone around me. This is my cycle. Once the tears dry, the hatred comes out.

  “Easy ones.” He smiles and I fight the urge to punch him in the face.

  He puts his hand out for me and I stare at his immaculately perfect skin covering his long slender fingers. The druggie in me can’t help but zone in on the veins that pop underneath his skin. I can’t remember the last time my hand looked like that. I contemplate my next move because as badly as I want to fight this, I know it needs to happen. This is my only shot. It’s been so long that I’m not even sure what living is anymore. And as badly as that scares me, it also motivates me to choke down my ego.

  I shrug my parents loving hands away from me. I don’t need or want them fawning over me anymore.

  “I fuckin’ hate you both.”

  I place my hand in his. Taking a step forward, I focus on his face and its jagged edges, trying to make sense of the lines and contours hoping that it’ll serve as a distraction of sorts.

  He shoots my parents a sympathetic look. “We’ll handle it from here, Mr. and Mrs. O’Connell.”

  “We love you,” they say to my back but I don’t give a shit. I choose to not acknowledge them. Acknowledging them would mean I’m weak. I’m not weak.

  “Can we go now?” I ask, my voice laced with disdain. Part of me wants to fight, to kick and scream and be a real pain in the ass, but I’m smart enough to know I’m past that point. I just want to get this fuckin’ show on the road.

  Still holding my hand, he leads me down a long boring hallway to an office. The nameplate on the door reads Asher Hughes, LADC. I realize he’s yet to tell me his name and it irritates me. Here he knows everything about me: my name, why I’m here . . . it’s all out there for him. But he can’t even throw me a bone? Give me his name? It’s bullshit.

  I throw myself down onto the oversized armchair and groan, my hands starting to shake as I grip the arm. I’d kill for something to take the edge off right now. It’s been too long. The pain is about to start creeping in. My heart races at the thought, and my eyes begin to well up.

  The man, who I can only assume is Asher Hughes, sits down across from me. He leans forward, propping his elbows onto his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “So, Tegan, tell me what brought you here?”

  “Isn’t it pretty obvious?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  I clench my fists so tightly that my finge
rnails dig into my tender skin, leaving angry crescent shapes carved into my palms. Anger pulses through my bloodstream and I shoot to my feet. “What the fuck difference does it make if I say it or not? You know why I’m here!”

  I look around for something to grab, something that would make a good projectile. Spotting a bookshelf behind me, I turn and run my left forearm along the wooden plank, clearing the books that once lined it, creating a thundering noise as they fall to heap on the floor. Satisfied, I look over my shoulder, waiting for his reaction. But it doesn’t come. He doesn’t flinch. His expression remains non-committal. He exudes complete calm.

  Complete control.

  Leaning back in his chair, he looks up at me and smiles a crooked smile. He’s fuckin’ smiling. What a smug bastard. “You’re not the first person to come in here and clean out my bookshelf.”

  Unsure of my next move, I remain standing, frozen in place. I’m shocked, but more than that I’m . . . afraid. This is new. My tantrums and rage have worked on my family for years. But this guy, this guy seems to revel in it.

  “Tegan?”

  I snap back a quick, “What?”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and start with why you’re here.” Although phrased as a question, the way he said it sounded more like a demand. Defeated, I sigh and slump back into the chair, like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

  “You know, I hate being forced to say something that everyone already knows the answer to.”

  He gives a slight nod and looks at me with softened eyes that urge me to play his stupid cat and mouse game.

  “I’m here because they’re making me.”

  “No one can make you do anything, Tegan,” he says flatly. “If you don’t want this, it’s not going to work. You’re just wasting your time, and mine.”

  “Great.” I laugh through my nose. “Tell that to my mother. She’s the one who threatened to call the cops if I didn’t come.”

  “Parents will do anything to help their children—especially if they think it’s going to save their lives.”

  I taste blood when I bite the inside of my cheek hard. As much as I want to be pissed, I know it’s true. I’m at death’s door. The Grim Reaper and I are on a first name basis but he won’t give me many more chances. “And if my life isn’t worth saving?” I choke out.

  His mouth presses into a hard line and he leans forward, reaching out to me, taking my arm in his hand. The loss of personal space is unsettling and keeps me locked in place. I look down at the place where our bodies are joined. His skin is hot on mine and it strikes me that I can actually feel his pulse where his wrist rests on top of my hand. I lift my eyes slowly until they meet his. The moment seems to drag on and even though I want to reclaim my bubble, I can’t move away from him. It’s strange and uncomfortable. “You have got to trust that it is,” he says softly. “If it wasn’t you wouldn’t be here, and I certainly wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  His words make my heart stop and the air leave my lungs. It’s been a long time since someone has so much as uttered a positive thing about me and really meant it. I can tell that he does. He thinks my life is worth saving. And it’s then, in the very next instant that I realize I can’t let my guard down; I have to protect myself. I jerk my arm away and glare at him.

  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “We have a lot to learn about each other, don’t we?”

  “Or you could just not fuckin’ touch me.”

  “Noted. Now, tell me, why do you think your mother and father want you here?”

  “Because they can’t handle me.”

  He gives me a pointed look, his left eyebrow lifting slightly. “And why do you think they can’t handle you?”

  Seriously? Another question.

  “Is everything that comes out of your mouth a goddamn question?” I groan. He lets out a deep chuckle and I roll my eyes. Nothing about this is funny.

  “Creature of habit I guess,” he says with a smile.

  My knee starts to bounce up and down, a good indicator that my patience is about worn out. I’m tired of the back and forth. There’s no use anyway. I know I’m staying here—no matter how pissed off I continue to be.

  “I want you to tell me why you’re here.”

  The air thickens and my heartbeat thunders in my ears. My palms are slick with sweat and my stomach does a flip.

  Is it starting already? I ask myself, but I know it’s not. Those are just the emotions I try to keep buried oozing out from between the cracks in my soul, just like I knew they would.

  “Because . . .” I pause, taking a deep breath. It’s pretty simple, but saying it out loud is proving to be harder than I ever imagined. “Well, because . . . I love heroin more than I love myself.”

  IT WAS A MORNING like any other. I rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom on shaky legs, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Because I had passed out earlier than usual, withdrawal was already hitting me. Well, I was telling myself it was withdrawal and not the pain of the recent events in my life. It didn’t matter where I went, where I looked, I kept seeing her. Over and over again. She was there, but not really. She was lifeless.

  Gone.

  I flushed and sat back on my heels, my hands gripping fistfuls of hair to keep my hands from trembling. It sucked, but I needed to get moving. I needed to get something so I could take the edge off. I needed my dealer because without any roommates around that morning, I had no one else to mooch off.

  My brain kept trying to start but much like an engine that can’t turn over after the ignition has been turned, it misfired over and over. I grabbed ahold of the sink and pulled myself to my feet. Both hands gripped the sides as I steadied myself and looked in the mirror. Seeing myself through sober eyes grew harder each and every time. The person I once was harder to find in the reflection of the stranger in front of me. My eyes were sunken deep into my skull, accentuated by dark circles, my chin peppered with red open sores, infected and festering, the skin around my mouth cracked to the point where it bled. The dried blood caked on top created a mound of ooze that I just couldn’t leave alone. The more I touched it, the worse it got.

  But it didn’t really matter to me. The person in the mirror was just a shell. There was little left of the girl I used to be, and what was there was fading fast. Pretty soon she would just be a memory, a painful reminder of what I had once been, but never would be again. Underneath the bad skin and broken eyes were brains and beauty. My skin had once been radiant, the milky tone accentuated by my fiery red hair. There had been a time where my intelligence had even outweighed my good looks. But all of that had dulled; everything I once was a casualty of what I’d become.

  I turned away and walked back toward my bedroom. Flopping down onto the mattress on the floor I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts, finding his name. After three rings he answered, his voice groggy and thick with sleep. “What?”

  “I need some smack.”

  He sighed. I could tell he was annoyed. I’d be annoyed with me too, I was a pathetic excuse for a customer but even still it made me want to kick his ass. Bad customer or not, I was a customer and he always got something from me. “I’ve got a bundle but it’s spoken for.”

  My heart pounded against my chest. “Nothing else?” I asked, panic stricken.

  “Nope. I’ve only got twelve bags total, but I’m planning on throwing the other two in as a kick. He’s one of my best customers. He actually pays—with cash.”

  His words gutted me because there was truth in them. I was barely ever able to pay in cash anymore, hence his annoyance, often trading things to support my habit. I’d steal shit in order to keep going back for more. Electronics, jewelry, booze; all things coveted in the world I lived in. But more often than not, I liked to offer up myself. At this point I could barely function, let alone steal something without being caught. Then I’d have to find a new person to buy my H off.

&nbs
p; I looked down at my trembling hands and knew I was in trouble. “I only need one bag,” I led, knowing what I was going to offer.

  He groaned and I heard him moving around. My heart soared. He was going to take the bait. “You got cash?” he asked.

  “No”—I paused—“I’ve got something better. Something you want.”

  He laughed. “Oh, really?” He emphasized the second word, stretching it out in a way that symbolized his intrigue.

  “Really.”

  “And what’s that, Tegan?” He was making me say it. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but in a way it did. I just assumed he’d figure out what I meant and jump at the opportunity and that would be that. I should have known he’d want to hear the words come from my mouth.

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “Come over here,” I said as seductively as I could given the DTs that were controlling me, “and I’ll show you.”

  He laughed. “I need more than that before I drive across town to deliver an already spoken for bag.”

  I was done with the games. I needed my fix. “Get your ass over here and I’ll let you fuck me.” My words were crude but if it meant he got in his car and brought me what I needed, I didn’t give a shit.

  “I don’t want you to let me fuck you,” he bit out, “I want you to fuck me.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want.” I pleaded. “Please just bring me a bag.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there in ten.”

  The line went dead and I dropped my cell phone to the floor. Tears threatened to spring from my eyes, but I choked them back, refusing to let it break me. I managed to get to my feet and walked into the bathroom, pulling out my tattered makeup bag and spending the next ten minutes attempting to recreate the face I’d had just six months ago.

  I was putting the mascara on when I heard the knock on the door. I stopped and admired my handy work. For a heroin-addicted slut, I didn’t look half bad. My eyes popped against the contrasting color of my eyeliner, and my red hair complemented the gloss on my lips perfectly. He knocked again and time stopped as the sharp, ominous sound reverberated through my soul. It was like the Grim Reaper was finally here to claim me. I guess in a way he was. I knew I was close to death. I’d already been there once before.