To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  My vision swims and everything in me wants to collapse.

  For a second, I forget where I am, who I am, and everything that’s ever happened in my life.

  No. No no no.

  Words ring in my brain for all too long, before time speeds back up and I hear Merci shouting at me.

  “Mr. Wright! Are you there??”

  “Yes,” I croak, stammering to the door. “I’m on my way.”

  I hang up and shove my phone away, nerves rattling inside me as I take in a deep breath, pleading with myself to calm down enough to drive.

  “What happened?”

  Remembering that Lazarus is still on the floor, I glance at him briefly.

  “Traci overdosed,” my tone is robotic as I leave his house.

  His voice catches me before I can get to my car.

  “Wait!” Peeking over my shoulder, I see him chasing me. “What do you mean overdosed? Where is she??”

  I slide into my vehicle, which is actually still running, and squint at where he stands in the driveway, keeping a few feet between us.

  “Stay the fuck away, Lazarus. I spared you this time, but next time it’ll go differently. If you ever come near me or my daughter again, I will fucking kill you. And I’ll make it as slow and painful as possible… to show you how it feels.”

  He freezes, lips parted, looking more helpless and broken than ever before. I wish I could say it’s satisfying, but of course it’s not.

  He broke us. He ruined everything.

  And now my baby girl, my whole world, is suffering and I need someone to blame, so he’ll have to do. The rage is making it very fucking easy to shift all responsibility onto this asshole who fucked my teenage daughter.

  Slamming my car door in his face, I peel out of the driveway, shivering in fear as I speed to the hospital, whispering silent prayers the entire way.

  Please let her be alright. I can’t lose her, too.

  She needs to live.

  Or else I’ll never forgive either one of us.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Traci

  Was I trying to kill myself?

  That’s the question everyone keeps asking.

  My dad, the doctor at the hospital, my grandfathers, my psychiatrist. They all want to know if I swallowed all those pills in an attempt to end my life.

  I wish I had an answer for them.

  That’s the funny thing about addiction. Because to a certain extent aren’t all addicts willfully killing ourselves?

  Being addicted to something is miserable. And honestly, I had no motherfucking clue I even was an addict until I woke up in this hospital bed, and realized that the way I’d been living my life for years was completely fucked.

  Snorting pills. Smoking them. Relying on them…

  Admitting I have a problem was the easy part for me, which is fortunate, since I know others seriously struggle with it. But I knew right away, the moment my groggy brain filtered, and I saw my father, curled up in a chair sleeping next to me in the hospital. I put myself here, because I’ve been abusing my prescription medication since I was sixteen.

  It’s a shitty fucking feeling. Almost worse than the guilt that’s still living inside me.

  Almost.

  The hospital had to keep me for two days for observation, and Dad’s been with me the whole time, though we haven’t talked about what drove me to overdose; the things I’ve been running from since long before I became an addict.

  I know I’ll have to talk to my dad about Lazarus, eventually. I think waiting until I’m out of the hospital is the best bet, which will be in a couple hours. They’re working on my discharge papers now.

  I’m excited to go back home. I’m feeling a little better today, though I’m more exhausted than I ever have been from the detox. It’s weird not having the option to just pop a pill to combat my negative feelings. It’s been my default way of dealing with things for a while, and I know I’ll need some help to break those habits, which is why Dad had all my things moved from Merci’s apartment back to our home in Bayshore. Whether or not I’m eighteen, my dad’s not playing around with my recovery, and he’s definitely not to be argued with on this.

  My overdose had nothing to do with Merci, our small dumpy apartment or that sketchy neighborhood in Little Haiti. If anything, despite my addiction, I found myself there. It’s where I learned who the real Traci is.

  And Aton… Fuck.

  Having to call Aleya and Alli to explain that I have to resign for a while to get my life back together was almost as painful as waking up from having my stomach pumped. It was embarrassing and humbling as hell. I’d never felt more like a spoiled, basic-ass trust-fund brat. Overdosing on my anti-anxiety meds like some selfish little girl with nothing to lose, when in reality I have everything to lose.

  My life, my dreams, my family… God, what was I thinking?

  This whole thing was the biggest wake-up call ever. I know who I am, and I know what I want. Now it’s just a matter of getting it all back without depending on drugs to cope.

  My father has a point. I can’t expect to get better living on my own. Being in Little Haiti was definitely a stress-trigger, and if there’s any hope of me recovering from this, I have to do it from the comfort of my childhood home, with the one person who’s always had my back, no matter what.

  That being said, after basically sleeping through the last two days in a hospital-fog, my anxiety has returned with a vengeance and I’m nervous.

  What happened between Dad and Lazarus?

  I know Lazarus came to the hospital on my first night here. I don’t know how I can tell for sure since I didn’t see or speak to him. It was just a feeling I had when I woke up, like I could sense him; his presence. I’ve always been able to, and I guess almost killing myself didn’t subdue any of my internal attachment to the man. Though I wouldn’t expect it to.

  I’m itching to talk to him. I want him to know that I’m okay, and that regardless of everything going on with him and my dad, I don’t blame him for anything. It’s all fucked up right now, and I know it’s my fault. I want them both to accept that so they stop blaming each other, or themselves.

  It’s with these staggering thoughts buzzing through my brain that I’m nestled up in a wheelchair and carted downstairs to Dad’s car. He’s treating me like I’m a senile old lady, and honestly I find it sweet. I’ve really missed him doting on me, and even though I know he’s beyond angry, more than he’s probably prepared to deal with, he’s still my perfect dad, and I love him with every ounce I can give.

  He gets me settled inside his vehicle, with all the teddy bears and flowers I received as Get Well gifts from all my grandparents, Merci and our neighbors at the apartment, the girls at Aton, and Dante from Boom Boom. Nothing from Lazarus, unfortunately, though I expect he knows anything he might’ve sent would have been intercepted by my irate father.

  Staring out the window during our drive home, I contemplate the last few days, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to pick up the shattered pieces of my life. I agreed to Dad’s stipulations: no going out under any circumstances unless authorized by him, seeing my new therapist twice a week - he fired the one who started prescribing me the drugs when I was a kid and I know he’s harboring an awful lot of guilt about letting that happen - Narcotics Anonymous meetings once a week, and no work until we both agree that I’m feeling better about my sobriety.

  And absolutely no Boom Boom Room. Though I assured him that was a given.

  I’m fine with all of it, because I know at the end of the day it’s in my best interest to get myself right. The only thing I’m still worried about is the one thing I can no longer keep from mentioning. It needs to be brought up.

  In 3… 2…

  “Dad, I need you to know how sorry I am,” my voice blurts, and his eyes dart right. “You have to know I never meant for any of it to happen like this.”

  “Trace, I know,” he murmurs, then starts chewing on his lower lip. He’s obviousl
y out of his league and uncomfortable, which sucks. I hate being responsible for his icky feelings.

  I gulp and take a deep breath. “So have you… spoken with him?”

  My dad’s forehead lines in severe distress as he pulls up to our gate. He shakes his head for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Then he turns to me, reopening his green eyes to show them etched in unease and sorrow. That look shoots me straight in the sensitive gut.

  “T, I can’t talk about him right now,” he whispers, jagged. If pain were a sound, it would be his voice like this. “We will… But not now.”

  I can do nothing more than nod slowly in agreement with his request. Anything to get him to stop looking so damn miserable.

  He huffs out hard and presses his lips together in that thing that looks like it wants to be a smile, but isn’t quiet there. He used to do it all the time after Mom died.

  Then he keys in our code at the gate, driving us home in silence.

  Once I’m settled in my old bedroom, I end up falling asleep for a few hours. I’m still getting past the grogginess and the nausea, so by the time I wake up, well after sun-down, I’m ravenously hungry. I’ve eaten nothing but hospital food - mostly crackers, ginger ale and pudding - in days and I’m craving a cheeseburger, or a whole pizza. Something heavy and delicious.

  I make my way downstairs in my sleep shorts, t-shirt and fuzzy slippers, feeling like I never left. It’s oddly comforting to be back here with my dad, but confusing at the same time, because it’s as if I’ve slipped back in time.

  I know I didn’t live on my own for very long, but it was long enough for me to experience so much, and learn tons of lessons, about myself, my life, and what I want.

  It was long enough for me to get the man of my dreams and lose him.

  Thoughts of Lazarus make me trip over my own feet, stumbling into the kitchen island. It’s so weird being here without him. He wasn’t always here, but more often than not he was and, in a way, this house is as much his as it is mine or Dad’s.

  “Hey, kiddo,” my father croons, rounding the corner from the living room. “Sleep good?”

  “Yea. I’m still so tired.” I rub my eyes. “When am I going to get over this endless exhaustion?”

  “It’ll take some time, I’m sure.” He comes to stand at my side, placing a kiss in my hair.

  It’s a massive relief that he’s no longer furious with me, or at least he seems to be ignoring it for now, while I’m recovering. Scary to think what he’ll be like when I’m better.

  “You hungry?” He asks, snapping me out of my head.

  “You read my mind.”

  “Or I heard your stomach grumbling from the living room,” he teases. I give him a look that makes him laugh, the most refreshing of sounds. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Hmm… I don’t know,” I shrug, being a typical girl who can never decide what to eat. “Pizza?”

  He makes a face and the sudden memory of that whole Grubhub account, pizza delivery fiasco springs to mind, bringing on a nice fresh wave of regret to my stomach like acid reflux.

  “Actually, I’d rather have enchiladas,” I retract quickly, to which he visibly un-hunches ever so slightly. “You think my stomach can handle that?”

  “I’m sure.” He gives me an easy grin. “Why don’t you go relax and I’ll order dinner?”

  Nodding, I give him a grateful smile, and before he can reach for his phone on the marble, I lunge, wrapping my arms around his waist tight. I hug him for dear life, tucking my face into his chest and inhaling his smell.

  He smells like my dad. The best, strongest most amazing man I know. The man who loves… who forgives.

  I know he’ll find it in his heart to forgive me for what I did, and I know he’ll forgive Lazarus, too.

  My father wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him harder, burying his nose in my hair.

  “I love you so much, Dad,” I whimper, holding back the tears from the excessive emotions bounding through my system.

  “I love you too, Tiny,” he grunts. “Forever and always.”

  As if sensing the moment, his phone rings beside us on the island. Both of our eyes snap to the screen, and my stomach clenches like a fist when I see Lazarus.

  Dad tenses, so much that I feel the anxiety around him like a sudden force field. I can almost hear his teeth grinding, and my heart jumps like it’s trying to escape this awkward situation.

  We release each other at the same time, and my dad swipes to decline the call as I clear my throat.

  “I’m going to put my feet in the pool…” I mutter, and he doesn’t respond.

  The tension in the room is as thick as molasses, so by the time I step out into the refreshing night air I have to suck in a long breath of relief.

  “Fuck,” I whisper to myself. He’s still pissed…

  And here my naïve mind actually thought maybe my father could find it in his heart to forgive his best friend for sleeping with his daughter.

  I shake my head. Even if Dad could forgive Lazarus, he’ll never forget, and that’s probably worse. It means there’s no hope of us ever going back to normal. Not to mention the chances of me having any kind of relationship with the only man I’ve ever been in love with are slim to none.

  Compared to existing with this kind of guilt-laden broken heart, recovering from a pill addiction seems like a walk in the goddamn park.

  It’s been three weeks since I overdosed on my prescription medication, and it’s safe to say I’ve never felt so healthy.

  I’ll admit, in the first few days after leaving the hospital, I considered entering rehab. Dad and I talked about it, and he said it was totally my call, and he’d support me no matter what. I think he was proud of me for recognizing how difficult this will be, not even just now, but for the rest of my life.

  Addiction is a disease, and it never fully goes away. This is something I’ll always battle; a piece of baggage that will follow me around for all my days, no matter where I go, or what I do.

  That being said, I kept pushing on with the outpatient treatment, rather than going away. I chose not only to see my therapist and do Narcotics Anonymous, but also to attend group therapy once a week. My new shrink offers the classes at his office. I think that’s been my favorite part of everything I’m doing to keep busy. It’s definitely the most helpful.

  I love listening to people talk about their own experiences, which yes, I do get in N.A. But the group therapy is for Early Recovery, meaning there are no fifteen-year veterans, or people looking at you like you’re fresh meat. We’re all in the same boat.

  Some kids I’ve met are still actively battling relapse every day, to which I can relate. I haven’t had many cravings, but the hardest part of it all is breaking the habit. I got used to taking a pill any time my emotions got too heavy, or snorting a line any time I didn’t like what I was feeling.

  I don’t have that option anymore. I have to deal with the noise in my head on my own, for the first time since I was thirteen.

  It’s tough, and my fellow addicts in therapy know the feeling.

  Not to mention that talking to them makes it all seem less like a taboo subject you’re not allowed to discuss, and more like something we’re in together. There’s something to be said about confessing your deepest, darkest thoughts and secrets to total strangers.

  Therapy is the only place where I can talk about Lazarus. Well, there and on the phone with Merci. I miss my bestie so bad, I’m going nuts. Dad agreed to let her come over once I made it to one month sober, which is coming up soon.

  I can’t freaking wait to see my purple-haired angel. If it weren’t for her, I probably would’ve died, and I’m eternally grateful.

  I think I’ll bake her a cake.

  Aside from the obvious things I’m missing, like Merci and Lazarus and leaving the house, I miss teaching yoga like you wouldn’t believe. It became my salvation; the thing that made all the other chaos in my life slip away. For those forty-f
ive-minute classes, I was home. It was the closest to my mother I’ve felt since she died, and it’s killing me not to have that anymore.

  I’ve resumed my morning yoga by the pool, but now I talk to Mom while I do it. That might seem insane to some, but trust me when I tell you I have zero fucks left to give. My mother gave me this great love, along with the knowledge of a craft I want to pursue for the rest of my life. And since I can’t teach actual classes right now, I teach classes by myself, beside her lemon tree and all her flowers. And I talk her through it all.

  I know she’s listening. She has to be.

  Dad picks me up from therapy today, as usual, but when we get home, he stops me before I can head up to my room.

  “I have something for you,” he says, looking and sounding unsure of whatever it is he’s about to give me. So I just stare at him in silence.

  He pulls something out of his pocket and slips it into my hand. When I turn my palm, I see the keys to my Audi. The one I got for graduation, that I only drove for a few weeks before I left home.

  I gawk up at my father in surprise. He took the keys away since I haven’t been allowed out of the house by myself. And now he’s giving them back, which means he trusts me enough to allow me to go out on my own.

  “Are you sure?” I ask with uncertainty. Am I ready for this?

  He nods. “Yea. You’re doing wonderful, Trace. Your doctor says you’re taking this all very seriously, which is all I could ask for. I mean, you’re an adult. The fact that you’d even let me keep you on lockdown shows how much you don’t need to be. I know you’ll be dealing with recovery for a while, but with the kind of clear head on your shoulders you have, I don’t see any reason you have to stay cooped up in here.”

  My bottom lip quivers and I bite it. “Thanks, Dad. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how this would all work out. I felt really out of my element in the beginning. Obviously no one plans on being an addict, and it was scary to think about fighting this forever, but having your support has been everything. Don’t doubt the rules you set for one second, because it’s been so helpful in all this.”