I'm A Lightweight
It always started with a question. About the weather, music, celebrities, trees, anything. Then would come her answer. It didn't matter whether it was true or not. It quieted his buzzing mind either way, and for just a little while, he was able to think about something other then the amber liquid that ruled his life.
When he first arrived at the Blue Ridge Rehabilitation Center, the nurses told him that the first step to recovery was meeting people like himself. He had gagged at the irony; he would be cured by now if that were true.
Nevertheless, he approached the first person he saw: a girl with wavy brown hair and large chocolate eyes that were far to big for her sunken face. She sat on the tiled floor with a book in her lap.
"What's your name?"
That was the first question. The first of many.
"Isabelle."
That was her answer. He called her that for a week until a kind nurse corrected him, saying that her real name was Mitchie. He never really liked the name Isabelle anyway. He learned that she was a good liar. Sometimes he wondered if everything about her was a lie. That she wasn't really there, that he was talking to nothing, feeling a shadow, kissing the air.
But shadows don't bleed.
Every time he sees her, he asks a question. It's real at first; simply him and his forgetful mind not remembering where the group therapy is, but it turns into a game when she keeps giving him different answers.
Eventually their conversations move past questions.
He learns that this is her second visit, that she's been here for thirteen months already, and that the doctors say that she's no where close to being able to leave. She tells him that she's a hopeless romantic, and that she loves it when her favorite character dies. And when he asks why, she replies,
"Well, when the person dies, you see how people really felt about them when they were alive. Wouldn't that be nice, to be able to know what people really think of you?"
He nods his head, but disagrees. That's probably the last thing he would want.
He tells her about how he killed his best friend twenty-five days ago, that he wishes he had died in the wreck too: him and his shattered whiskey bottle.
She learns that he's a runner, with the fastest marathon time on the eastern border, and that he ever wants to run again. His friend was half a second away from beating his record. Maybe if he waits long enough, he will.
And she learns that he loves to sing. And he learns that she does to.
"Maybe we could, you know, sing sometime," he says offhandedly.
She turns to him with lopsided eyebrows and face turned into a smirk.
"I have a feeling you're a little too 'boy band' for me."
The first few weeks are horrible. The cold claws of withdrawal scratch at him ceaselessly, and therapy is simply torture, like being locked in a room with wild dogs. The therapists prod him all day, always asking him the same questions. He doesn't know how this could possibly be helping.
He can only tolerate one therapist: a sixty year old man with salt and pepper hair and kind, twinkling eyes. Dr. Foley doesn't poke like the others. He chats and tells jokes, and at some point along the way, you find yourself laying your heart on the table.
"Have you had any urges to drink recently, Shane?" asks Dr. Foley.
Shane almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the question, returning the old man's inquiry with a crooked smirk.
The doctor smiles slightly, before shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, of course you have. And that is perfectly normal for the first few weeks. It's not going to be a quick process. I'll ask you the same question in a month.
"In the meantime, I'd like you to continue to engage in therapy, and I'd like you to talk to the other kids."
Shane nods and turns to leave.
"Wait," says Dr. Foley, "I notice that you've made friends with Mitchie Torres."
Shane nods again, adopting a questioning look as he does.
"Yeah, we talk sometimes."
The doctor smiles.
"Good. That's good. She needs someone."
He and Mitchie continued to talk. He enjoyed her company, and he imagined that she felt the same.
"What's that kids problem?" he had questioned one day, pointing to a wiry twelve-year old that crouched in the cafeteria corner.
Mitchie glanced up from her untouched food to see who he was pointing to.
"Oh, that's Michael. I think he's an orphan. Lived with his uncle until the poor kid accidentally burned down the house. They say he's a pyromaniac."
She looked at the boy again.
"I think he's just sad."
They had heard sirens that night. Shane peeked out of his room to see emergency medics rushing a rolling bed quickly through the hall, a limp hand hanging over the side.
The next morning, Dr. Foley announced that Michael had taken his life.
Another man down, Shane had thought.
He glanced up to see Mitchie with her head in her hands, wet splatters dropping to the floor below her.
"He just wanted to go home," she had said that night.
Shane shook his head and mumbled,
"I want that more than anything."
But Mitchie remained silent.
Author Note:
Any comments/critiques are very much appreciated! Unfortunately, music will not be an overarching theme in this particular story, because this was originally written with different characters, and additionally, the characters may be a bit AU. I will add another chapter in the next day or so.
Thanks:)
