Page 152 of Relapse

I had a one on one, full time technician in my room now. A “specialized sitter” of sorts. The kind that watches to make sure I wouldn’t try to kill myself.

All of my items had been confiscated. Clothes too. I was in fancy hospital clothes now. Fitting.

Most of the first twenty-four hours I spent just sitting in the shadows. Listening to the sound of the fan cooling my room. Watching the darkness. Wishing it could pull me back in.

Life was about to get so much harder. And there was no evading the consequences. I couldn’t talk my way out of an overdose.

Damian was different. I could see it in the way he looked at me now. He had reached his limit. My actions had dragged him into a hole so deep that I wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way out.

There was guilt inside me because of it. But not enough for him to pity me any longer. He was throwing in the towel when it came to my comfort and choices. And our brotherly relationship.

“Once you’re discharged, you’ll be heading to a wellness facility for twenty-two days,” Damian informed me from my bedside.

My little caregiver sat nearby, scribbling notes and staying quiet.

The heroin withdrawal hit me like a truck. I had no idea what day it was anymore. I’d been throwing up for what felt like forever, and the shakes were impossible to deal with. Every muscle in my body seemed to be at war with itself. The worst part was the craving. A small, ugly part of me kept insisting that one more hit would make it all stop. My body was turning on me, and I needed help turning it off.

I was past the point of embarrassment. I knew Damian was about to take matters into his own hands. The next few weeks were going to be literal hell. Three weeks and a day of medically supported detox—which sounded fancy but apparently just meant they’ll give me pills so I don't shake apart—and then the real fun begins. Group circles. Sharing circles. How do you feel circles. Sitting in folding chairs with other disasters and pretending we’re fixing something, when in reality, we weren’t.

“The hospital does what’s called a “warm handoff” for inpatient treatment. You’ll head straight there—”

“I’m not a minor, you can’t make me—”

Damian held his hand up, silencing me.

“You’ve been deemed a threat to yourself. The doctors said you injected the heroin into your own IV port. To them, that’s considered an attempted suicide. Hence, our new friend here,” Damian ushered to my nurse, and he gave me a pitiful little wave. “I’ve gone through all of the legalities, Noah. Because I knew you’d push back. You’re going. Mother and I already signed off on the paperwork.”

I tried to change his mind. I tried to break him.

“Damy, I just want to go home,” I sobbed.

But Damian didn’t care about my tears anymore.

So I screamed. I cursed. I hit every tray of food that came through my room off of my table.

My overseer in blue scrubs mentioned restraining me with a posey. That’s when I finally shut up. I stopped talking. All together.

I sat in silence. Scratching my wrists. Shaking my leg. Trying my best to get my mind off of the want for more drugs. But it was impossible. It was all I could think about.

The day of transport, my strike of silence broke. Damian had come to see me off.

I could tell he had been crying.

“I don’t care if this makes you hate me. I’ve put this off long enough. The other day, we almost lost you. I thought I was going to lose my brother.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” I scoffed.

“Twenty-two days,” he emphasized. “I’ve got your bag packed for you. You can’t bring any electronics, so text who you want now, before we check in.”

He handed me my cell phone, and stood by my hospital door like a watch guard.

I texted Delane.

My brother is forcing me into rehab. I’ll be MIA for a while.

She responded.

Just please get better.