by Shandi Boyes
I can feel the instant relief washing over me when he states that I will not be going to jail.
“I sentence Noah Taylor to rehabilitation for a period of three months for alcohol and anger management counselling. If he fails to complete the necessary requirements of his rehabilitation stay, as requested by his counsellors, I will have no choice but to force him to complete the remainder of his sentence in a State Correctional Facility” he declares while hitting his gavel down on his large wooden desk.
“You have a chance to get your life back on track Noah. I suggest you take this time seriously and start listening to the people around you who are trying to help you” he states as he stands from his seat.
“All rise” says the bailiff, as the judge walks out of the courtroom and back into his chambers.
I turn my gaze to my lawyers who seem pleased with the judge’s verdict.
“Why do you look fucking happy?” I question angrily.
They can be happy as they aren’t the ones being forced into rehab. For three fucking months I am going to be constantly watched and monitored, let alone participate in counselling session, I think I should have reconsidered the plea and just spend my time in jail.
“You were lucky he only gave you three months Noah, it could have been a lot worse than that. You should be thanking your lucky stars you are not in jail tonight” Thomas states firmly.
Chapter 11
“This will be good for you Noah” advises Jacob, as he pulls into the ‘Hope Hills Centre for Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation’.
The rehabilitation centre is set on top of a large hill that overlooks the City of Los Angeles. The manicured grounds are bustling with patients that are participating in several programs, one group appears to be doing Tai Chi while another is painting.
“Yeah, really good” I reply sarcastically.
How could doing Tai Chi help me to get over losing the love of my life. I had been given three days by the judge to finalise my affairs before I was schedule to arrive at rehab for my forced stay. Jacob once again had become my permanent shadow, not even allowing me to have any privacy in the bathroom.
Jacob parks his car into a spare space and assists me to get my bags out of the boot, before we walk up the white stairs at the front of the building. It looks like an old 1950’s Hollywood mansion. The walls are all painted white, there are green trestles and vines growing up the concrete pillars. We walk through a large glass door up to a white desk in the middle of the foyer, where a middle age well-built women looks up from her computer screen to greet us.
“Name” she requests firmly while looking between Jacob and I.
“Noah Taylor, he is here for” Jacob commences stating
“This is as far as you can go” she interrupts, while turning her gaze to Jacob.
I look over at Jacob and give him a quick brief man hug, before removing my bag from his grasp.
“I will come back and see you when I can” Jacob advises, before he turns swiftly on his heels and starts bolting out of the foyer, leaving me to defend the dragon alone.
“Do you have any alcohol in your bags?” she questions as she stands up from her large leather chair.
“We are going to search them either way, so you may as well come out and say if you are trying to hide anything in there” she advises while her gaze wanders over my body.
“Better now than during the strip search” she chuckles.
My eyes open wide in shock, I cannot tell if she is being serious or not. I pull out the flask of whiskey I had placed in my leather jacket and hand it to her as she tsk’s at me.
“I was joking about the strip search, but I will remember this for future reference” she declares while giving a wink.
“Go through those double doors and take a left, the second door on the right is Dr Miller. She is your assigned counsellor” she advises pointing to a set of double doors on my right-hand side, before handing me a single sheet of paper.
Two wards men come and remove my bags that I had placed on the floor. They start searching through them on a bench top located near the large stained glass windows at the front of the foyer. I look back at the receptionist, who is motioning for me to walk towards the entrance of the Rehabilitation Centre. I turn and slowly start walking towards the large white double doors. I try to take in some large deeps breaths. Can I fucking do this? Three months I am going to be stuck here! Three… long… fucking… months!
“Make sure you don’t forget to knock before entering” yells the receptionist, just as I walk through the double doors.
The instant I walk through the doors all I can smell is that horrible sanitation smell that every hospital or dental surgery seems to have. The walls are all white in colour and the tiles are done in white marble. Looking down the hall, I notice several doors are lining the corridor. Each door has a plaque with a doctor’s name and rehabilitation service they specialise in. I turn left and walk down two doors, stopping at the door on my right. The plaque states Dr R Miller, Anger Management Counsellor. I quickly turn the handle and walk in. Only remembering once I had taken a few steps in that I was supposed to knock, causing me to freeze before turning around.
“You are already in now, you may as well keep entering” advises a female voice from behind a large red leather seat. It is sitting behind a wooden desk that is covered in papers and document wallets.
The leather seat slowly spins around to face me. Dr Miller is a lot younger than I had expected, I would say late twenties, maybe early thirties. She has light brown straight hair that is pulled back and a wispy side fringe. Her skin is flawless and white in color and she has on a pair of black rimmed glasses. She looks over at me and a small v forms in the middle of her green eyes. She squirts sanitary solution from a small bottle into her hands before rubbing it in. Once it has dissolved she reaches out for the paper in my hand. I hand her the piece of paper and she gestures for me to take a seat on the black chair opposite her desk.
“Noah Taylor, Singer, twenty-three, anger management and alcohol rehabilitation” she reads, before peering over the paper to look at me.
“Aggravated assault on a camera man, three-month conviction, yadda yadda yadda” she states, before dropping the piece of paper onto the desk. She lifts her eyes to stare directly into mine.
“Why don’t you tell me why you are here…Noah?” she questions, after checking the document she was just reading to ensure she called me by my correct name.
“The footage the judge saw didn’t show what really happened” I reply while shrugging my shoulders.
The footage that was shown around the world didn’t capture what he had said to me before I kicked him. It looked like I just decided to attack him for taking my picture at the airport, which only I know isn’t true. It probably didn’t help that I knocked him out cold on live TV, but that fucker got what he deserved.
“So you don’t have any problems with your anger?” she questions while leaning back against her chair.
I instantly start shaking my head. If people don’t piss me off, I don’t have any problems with my anger.
“Of course you don’t” she replies sarcastically.
She then looks down at a diary that is open at the side of her desk.
“Your first counselling session will commence at three pm in room thirty-two. Don’t be late.” She advises while picking up a pen to jot something in her diary.
I look up at the clock on the wall and notice it has just gone a little after two pm. I stand up and attempt to walk away from her desk, until I realise that I don’t even know where I am supposed to go.
“The wards man outside my door will show you to your room” she advises, her eyes never leaving the document in front of her.
I walk out the door and notice the wards man that had earlier been going through my bags is standing outside Dr Millers office. Once he notices me, he starts walking down the white hallway. This place seems to be made up of a whole heap of long hallways with sever
al rooms attached. Once we arrive at the other side of the building, the doctors’ names on the doors are replaced with patient names. We end up stopping in front of one with my name written on it.
“Your clothes are in the cupboard; you will be expected to wear them the entire time you are here. You need to remove you boots and they will be returned to you once your rehabilitation period is finalised” states the wards man in a stern tone as we walk into my living quarters for the next three months.
The room is pretty bland, there is no surprise that the walls are white. There is a silver single bed against once wall, a wooden desk and set of drawers against another wall and two doors. I am assuming one is a wardrobe and another may be a bathroom.
“Boots” requests the wards man sternly as he glares down at my black boots.
I quickly undo the laces and remove my boots before handing them over to him. I then look down at my sock covered feet.
“There are slippers in the wardrobe” advises the wards man as he turns and exits my room.
Slippers? Are you fucking kidding me? I walk over and open one of the doors. The first one on the left is the bathroom. It is all done in white tiles, a standard vanity, an upright shower and a cistern. I then open the door next to the bathroom and it is the wardrobe. I look down and notice three pairs of white hard soled slippers still in their protective plastic. This is the first time ever in my fucking life that I am going to be wearing a pair of slippers. My gaze turns up towards the pants and shirts hanging in the wardrobe. There are three pairs of light grey cargo pants with a corded elastic waist and three white v neck shirts.
I pull down a pair of cargo pants and a shirt before going into the bathroom to get changed. As I slip the shirt over my head, I notice that my eyes look even darker than normal against its stark white coloring. My face is now covered with a rough thick beard, as I have not shaven since the day I buried Emily. I have lost over ten pounds the past few weeks making my appearance look sick and gaunt.
As I walk out of the bathroom, I notice the wards man is bringing my bags into the room. His gaze turns towards me before he walks over and pulls hard on the drawstring of my pants.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask him angrily as I try to move away from him.
The elastic in the pants manages to keep my pants in place, once he had fully removed the drawstring, but I don’t like him fucking touching me.
“I forgot that you are on suicide watch so no cords, strings, shoe laces, belts, razors or any other device that you may be able to use against yourself are allowed” he recites as he goes into the wardrobe and removes the drawstring from the other two remaining pants.
Drawstrings? He seriously thinks I am going to be able to kill myself with drawstrings from a pair of cargo pants?
“Yes it has happened before” he states raising his eyebrows at me, like he can hear my thoughts.
“You better get a move on or you are going to be late, and believe me you don’t want to be late for an appointment with Dr Miller” he declares as he walks out into the corridor.
Chapter 12
‘You’re late!” Dr Miller advises angrily as I enter the counselling room.
I look up and notice that the clock on the wall has just gone 3.05pm.
“Sorry” I mumble.
Room thirty-two was on the complete opposite side of the rehabilitation building. My room is located in the west wing and the counselling sessions are taking place in the east wing. It also didn’t help that I had gotten lost, I am impressed that I am only five minutes late.
“It is not acceptable Noah. I have an extremely busy schedule and if every one of my patients arrived five minutes late I would end up losing precious hours every day” She states as she pulls her glasses off her face to look directly at me.
Dr Miller may have not been as old as I first thought, she is maybe mid to late twenties. She is attractive, if you like the dorky school teacher look. She has on a white blouse that is tucked into her tight black pencil skirt, that shows off her curvy body. I return my gaze to her face and she had noticed my perusal of her body. Her eyes have pulled together forming a little v in-between them and they are also narrowed.
“You may think that this is a waste of your time, but this is my job and you can at least try to be respectful enough not to waste my time. If you would prefer that I sign this form stating that you do not wish to participate in the rehabilitation program I have designed for you, I can. But that means you will be incarcerated immediately for the next three months” she states firmly to me.
“Is that what you want Noah?” she asks, while staring directly into my eyes.
I shake my head, I know that rehab is going to be hard enough, but I would choose to stay here than being thrown in jail any day.
“Okay, then no more turning up late. You do as you are instructed by me and the next three months will be over before you know it” she advises as she takes a seat in a large grey recliner, motioning for me to sit on the double seater chair next to it.
“Now tell me about yourself Noah?” she questions, as she pulls out her yellow notepad and pen from her briefcase located next to her chair.
“There has to be more to you than what I have been informed by your admission forms” she quizzes, while looking over a white piece of paper in front of her.
I run my hands over the rough beard that is covering my jawline. There is nothing I hate more in the world than being forced to sit down and talk. I look over and notice that she is watching me intently, while chewing on the end of her black pen. I take in several large deep breaths.
“Anything?” she questions while raising her eyebrows into her hairline.
“Ok, so let’s read what they have here then. You are the lead singer of a band called ‘Rise Up’. You are twenty-three years old, unmarried, no kids, have a problem with alcohol and need to learn how to control your anger issues. Nothing out of the ordinary here is there?” she states sarcastically, reading information off the paper in front of her.
“You don’t fucking know me” I reply harshly.
“No I don’t know you Noah. That was the whole point in me asking you to tell me about yourself. All I know is what is written on this little form.” she replies, while handing the piece of paper to me.
I look down at the piece of paper and it is a standard admission form. It states my name, address, occupation, age, marital status and the reason I was being forced into rehab ‘aggravated assault’.
“Now you tell me you don’t read that piece of the paper the exact same way that I did. Another spoilt little rich rock star, who thinks he can do whatever he wants and once the law finally catches up with him, he will then say how sorry he is, before he goes running off into rehab” she snarls angrily.
“Fuck you” I reply harshly, throwing the admission form back at her, before starting to storm out of the room.
“If you leave, I will be forced to sign that document stating that you are refusing to follow your rehabilitation program” she yells from the doorway. I quickly spin on my heels and walk back towards her.
“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know the fucking hell I have been through, but you feel like you can sit there and judge me” I whisper angrily directly into her face, her eyes flickering between mine.
“and there is that uncontrollable anger that you say you don’t have a problem with” she replies, not once backing down on her strong stance.
“You can’t go around beating people up just because they say something you don’t like Noah” she continues, as her eyes narrow at me.
“You don’t know what he fucking said. You don’t know what he said about her!” I yell angrily, as I clench my fists tight.
“Then tell me Noah, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me” she replies.
“She was my fucking everything” I whisper harshly, as my anger morphs into sadness.
“Who was you everything?” Dr Miller questions, the stern gaze of her eyes
starts to soften.
“No one ever knew how much she meant to me. She didn’t even know how much she meant to me” I reply softly as my eyes start to water. Dr Miller’s eyes continue to flick back and forth between mine before I turn and walk down the long white hallway.
I end up spending the next two hours lying on top of the lumpy mattress in my cold and isolated rehabilitation room. I stare at my favourite photo of Emily the entire time, until I hear a slight cough at the doorway. Lifting my gaze, I notice Dr Miller walking into my room. I sit up in my bed still clenching the picture of Emily tightly in my grip. Dr Miller’s gaze turns down to look at the photo of Emily, before a small smile forms on her face.