Feel sick. Shit. Why'd it have to be like this? Craig squeezed his eyes shut, curled up on the bed in his room at this rehab place. Twin bed, flat pillow, hospital sheets with the rehab place's name stamped on them. He didn't care. Wanted his drug.
They'd explained to him that the detox from cocaine was not nearly as bad as heroin or alcohol. The danger was basically over. He hadn't had a heart attack so he'd be okay. No DT's. No hallucinations and crawling out of his skin. It was mostly a mental thing now. But the brain was a powerful organ and when it wanted a drug it was hard to resist.
Curled up, eyes squeezed shut, he felt that craving and felt frustrated that he couldn't have just one line. Felt angry that he was trapped here, locked rehab place and he knew he'd only gotten in here because Joey called Caitlin, told her he wanted him in a place he couldn't just walk right out of. Because Joey knew how he was, knew the tendency to run away. And he would go now if he could.
Balled up fist, punched the bed, didn't make him feel any better. The craving was shriveling him, his cells all crawling and demanding the same thing. He saw the sunlight in the room through his closed lids. Felt the sweat on his skin. Felt the boredom beneath the drug desire.
His knees brought up against his chest. He couldn't get comfortable. Couldn't get away from himself. Sucked in his breath. It was the middle of the day and he felt tired and wide awake and that he just wanted to get out of here, do what he wanted for once. Just one line. Just one. Would it really be so terrible? Would it? Because it made him feel better, less like a crazy loser, less like he still loved Ashley and she'd left the entire fucking country to get away from him, less like his father had hated his guts, had hit him all the time, less like he was always disappointing Joey. Less like his mother had deserted him well before she died. Less like all that shit mattered, he wanted to escape, needed to escape.
He moaned. He cried. He wanted it, wanted it. Felt the tears coursing down his cheeks. Wanted his escape, wanted to feel good like cocaine made him feel because he never felt good. Felt worthless. Felt unsure of himself. Was he even good at music like he thought he was? He couldn't tell, was too close to it.
So mad at Ellie for taking everything away from him. Music career, parties, cocaine and all the girls and losing himself with the girls and with the drugs and onstage. He had been feeling good for once in his life. And Ellie had to tell Joey.
"Craig?" He opened his eyes and saw someone in his doorway, a middle aged woman who worked here. He was unsure of her exact job. Nurse. Mental health tech. Doctor. Psychiatrist. They were all here, but her name tag was on a flat black rope around her neck and flipped the other way. He didn't care what she did anyway.
He looked at her but didn't say anything.
"Craig, it's time for group,"
"I'm not going," he said.
"You have to go," Her voice matter of fact, emotionless. He was so mad. Almost shaking with anger. So tired of people telling him what he had to do.
"No, I don't," He turned away from her. It wouldn't be the end. Someone else would come and try to talk to him and he dreaded it. What did they want to hear? He just wanted to be at some nightclub, the music pounding in his ears, the coke tingling in his blood stream.
A few minutes later and a young girl was there, or at least she looked young. And Craig could tell, remembered from being in the psych ward how the nurses were. This was a nurse. How they were sweet sometimes, especially when they were young like this one, and cajoled and faked their way to get the patients to do what they wanted them to.
She was pretty, too. Dark hair and dark eyes and Craig felt a bit of his anger wearing away, but not all of it and he felt like crawling out of his skin, wanting that goddamn drug, wanting to leave.
"Are you okay?" she said, and she seemed not even that much older than he was. What the fuck did it matter? He was at this place, this rehab and he was fucked up. He knew that this girl knew everything about him because it would all be there in his file or chart or wherever. She knew he had been abused by his father. She knew he was bipolar. She knew his parents were dead, that he was addicted to cocaine. So what did it matter if he told her how he was?
"No, okay, I'm not. I want to leave. I want to do coke, just one goddamn line. I…I'm not okay,"
He sat up, hugged his knees, leaned away from her. He didn't want her to touch him and she didn't. She was older than she looked and understood more than Craig knew. She understood addicts, especially ones with a mental illness, and she didn't attempt to touch him.
"Do you want something to help you feel less…anxious?" She was offering medication and he swallowed. He couldn't function without some form of it and he hated that. Hated the pills for his bipolar, hated this craving for cocaine, hated the anti-anxiety pills that he should take.
"Yeah, okay," he said, and knew he was sort of giving up, knew that he couldn't leave this place. So he had to do things their way. He'd take the medicine. He'd go to the groups. He had no choice.