Kept: A story of survival - Based on a true story by Erin Lee

Author:Erin Lee [Lee, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: substance abuse, true, domestic violence, true story, recovery, survival
Publisher: Crazy Ink
Published: 2018-02-21T16:00:00+00:00

Recovery’s Flashbacks

A SNAPSHOT, ONE THAT seemed to last an infinity. A moment in time, frozen. Everything suspended in a stationary state. Stopped. Paused. Halted. This is really not happening to me—but her—the other person I have to pretend I am to make it through this. Even just the memory.

And then the world rushed into focus around her. The room coming to life as she began to thaw into the present.

“Hello.”

His voice was soft as if he was asking for permission to speak from the air around him.

She knew it couldn’t be. Asking permission was her job.

Her blue eyes settled on his dark brown ones.

“Hello,” she repeated, guarded.

He smiled, wide, a little goofy. The corners of his mouth stretched to show his perfectly straight, white teeth. Without a second thought he slid onto the stool next to her, the beer bottle in his hand coming to rest on the hard wood of the bar. She imagined the wood was made from oak. Or pine. Maybe ash. Definitely not ash. Definitely oak.

“My name is Le,” he told her. His other hand reaching out toward her. She involuntarily shrank away from it, eyed his hand curiously, as if it was completely foreign to shake hands upon a greeting or with this man she already knew in the most intimate of ways. He noticed her hesitation and his hand moved quickly to rest on the bar. Away from her. Safely to himself. His eyes caught hers, and he let a nervous laugh escape.

Was it the coke?

“What’s your name?” Trying a new approach, he was hopeful. He had seen her there before. Sitting at the pub. He couldn’t quite figure out where he knew her from. He only knew he hated her. It was always the same: Her eyes always forward, staring at something no one but she could see. He had always wanted to approach her. To talk to her. To know her the way a lover did. The way a friend did. The way a person knows someone when they’ve peeled back the surface and peered into the depths of their being right to the center of whom they are and who they could become. But he already did, didn’t he? Was it the drugs? Was it sobriety? He didn’t care. He was intoxicated on the fog.

“Bree,” she said it firmly, like it was the closing of a conversation instead of the beginning of one. Her hands fidgeted against the oak of the bar. She was sure it was oak now. It felt like oak.

“Nice to meet you, Bree,” he told her honestly. Sincerely. He was always sincere, the type of honesty that made his friends make fun of him. The type of honesty and sincerity that paraded often as naiveté. He was hopeful, optimistic, a downright positive sort of being that never saw the fault in others. Never saw the warnings in others. Never saw the rot that could snake around a person’s soul until they were nothing but decay and a pretty face.

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