“I hope you understand that I’m doing this for your own good, Daenerys. You need help. Drugs aren’t the answer anymore.”

I stare out the window of “my room”, trying to make out objects in the distance in the dark of the early morning. I couldn’t believe him. He was doing it again – he was avoiding the problem, and instead pushing it all on someone else. It’s so… selfish of him.

There is a soft knock on my door. Without waiting for a response, one of the employees pushes the door open.

“Miss Baker?” she speaks, clearing her voice slightly. “I was instructed to inform you that you are required to attend the group therapy session in room 203 in approximately two hours.” With that, I hear her step out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Once she’s gone, I swear under my breath. I didn’t need “group therapy”. And I most certainly did not need to be a patient at an addiction rehab center. Weed was a recreational drug, and I most certainly was not that dependent on the high.

But I know I had no choice but to do what I was told. I learned that the hard way; there was no point of disobeying the authority here, because they can easily lock you in your room as long as they please.

I resist the urge to burst into tears as I move around my room tiredly, making a lame attempt to get dressed for my “group therapy” session. Dressed in all sweats, I finally step out of my room and make my way down the hall to room 203.

It was just like they describe it in stories; a group of young adults all sat on chairs in a circle, with just one empty chair for me. All eyes are trained on me as I slowly take a seat in the empty chair beside a brunette woman, who looked way too normal to be here.

“Welcome,” the brunette speaks in a tone of voice that a yoga instructor would use. It takes me a moment to realize that she must be the leader of the group therapy session. “You must be Daenerys.” I don’t say anything, but pick at my socks – no, they didn’t allow shoes in the facility unless you were going outside… with a caretaker. “My name is Lauren. Why don’t we go around the circle and introduce ourselves? Just say your name, and why you’re here.” She nods in the direction of a man who looks about forty, with graying hair and tired eyes.

“Hi,” he says. “My name is Daniel, and I am a recovering crack addict.” Everyone seemed to nod in approval at the way he worded this; the rest of the group went around in a counter-clockwise circle, introducing themselves similarly.

When it got to me, I could feel myself getting anxious under the gazes of so many adults; so many recovering drug addicts. I wasn’t like them, though; I wasn’t addicted to anything.

“Um…” That simple word alone came out as a sort of strangled gasp, and Lauren pats my leg reassuringly.

“It’s alright, dear; take your time.” I resist the urge to glare at her. But I needed to keep in mind that it wasn’t her fault that I was here; that she was simply just doing her job.

“Er… My name is Danny…” I try to say my name with some sort of finality, but Lauren, and everyone else in the circle, looks at me expectantly, silently urging me to go on. “That’s it…” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lauren frown slightly.

“Well, why are you here?” she asks me, keeping a steady, patient tone. “What are you recovering from?” The word “recovering” sounds like venom, the way it rolls of her tongue; it makes me cringe.

“I’m not recovering from anything,” I tell her, straightening up. “I don’t know why I’m here. There’s nothing wrong with me.” That was a lie. There was something wrong with me, but it wasn’t my drug habits. The only drug I ever did was marijuana, and that was a recreational drug. I mean, sure, you could become dependent on the high, but that had yet to happen to me; in fact, I hadn’t smoked in over a week, and I felt fine.

“Surely there’s a reason why you’re here,” Lauren presses, her tone of voice slowly growing impatient. I shrug.

“I don’t know. My dad thinks I need help; he thinks I’m constantly out getting high, but I’m not,” I explain, and she frowns even deeper.

“Have you ever been high?” she asks me.

“I do pot sometimes,” I tell her, “But I’m not addicted to it.” Her face seems to relax.

“So you do do drugs?” I shake my head.

“Not often,” I correct her and she sighs, clearly exasperated with me already.

“But marijuana is a drug.”

“Yes, but it’s a recreational drug. I’m not addicted to it; I’m not addicted to anything.” I glace around at the expressions of the rest of the group; they all seem to harbor a similar “oh, poor thing; she doesn’t realize that she is addicted to something” look. It makes me want to stand up and scream at them.

“It’s still a drug,” Lauren continues to argue. I’m too tired to argue back, so I just roll my eyes.

“Fine,” I say, “I smoke pot.” She narrows her eyes at me, but turns her attention towards the normal-looking brunette girl beside me.

When she doesn’t say anything – just continues to stare down at her hands – Lauren speaks up. “Tori, honey; can you please introduce yourself?”

Tori looks up at her, nothing but hostility in her hazel eyes. This doesn’t appear to faze Lauren, however; she must’ve been used to this by now.

“We’ve been over this before,” she growls. “Don’t call me Tori.”

“Tori, there’s no point in trying to fight anymore, dear,” Lauren replies, keeping a calm and composed tone. “You’ve been here for far too long; wouldn’t you like to get better?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” she yells. I jump slightly, but everyone else just rolls their eyes; they must be just as used to it.

Lauren just shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Well then.” She looks past Tori, signaling for the next person over to introduce themselves.

I tune out the rest of the introductions, and the majority of the therapy session. All the while, I could feel Tori’s cold gaze that remained trained on me for the rest of that agonizing hour.

~

“Are you going to eat that?”

I practically jump six feet in the air, not having seen Tori approach me. She sits across the table from me, staring down at the mush that the rehab center provided for us. I had been picking at it for the last half-hour, with no real intentions to eat it. I was rarely ever hungry anymore, and today was no exception.

I straighten up and shake my head in reply. Interpreting this as permission to take it for herself, she pulls the tray towards her and begins eating whatever it is that’s on it hungrily. I frown as I watch silently.

“What are you staring at?” she asks suddenly, looking up at me with her mouth full. I blink and shrug.

“Sorry, I –”

“It’s okay; I’m just messing with you.” She gives me a sort of lopsided smile and I try my best to return it. “So, I’m assuming that you’ve only been here for a day or two, am I right?”

“My dad brought me in last night.” She nods understandingly, her mouth forming a sort of ‘ah’ shape.

“Well,” she continues, still shoveling mush into her mouth, “I’ve been here a grand total of two years. This place is like a fucking prison.” She sets the clear plastic fork down, staring me directly in the eyes. “No matter how clean you are, you’re basically stuck here. You know Amanda?” I have to think for a moment, before I’m able to recall the tiny Asian lady in the group therapy not three hours earlier. “She’s been here for four years for being an alcoholic. Four years.”

“Can’t she just check herself out? I mean,” I begin playing with my hands nervously. “Aren’t most of those people adults?”

“You have to have permission from one of the administrators,” she explains. “Or you can have someone you know from the outside get you out of here.”

“Oh.”

“Like I said, this place is like a prison; no one gets in or out until they think you’re really ready.” She stands up, pushing the tray back towards me. “I’m full. You should eat something. You look like you could need it.”

Notes

~WOLFY~