Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.

Standard disclaimer.

MERCEDES

The first breath I took, burned and sent pain splintering throughout my chest and ribs.

It hurt in a way, that immediately forced my grimy-feeling eyes open.

I winced at the harsh overhead lights in the drop ceiling. I tried to lift my hand to shield my eyes, but my arm felt like it was weighed down with lead.

'Sit up.'

I needed to sit up, but as soon as I started that process, a sharp stabbing sensation shot across my abdomen, causing me to exhale harshly.

Okay. I would not move.

A shadow moved closer to the bed, and as I blinked, a form took shape. 'Dad.'

My father was leaning over me. Deep shadows were grooved into the skin under his eyes.

Taut lines formed around his mouth. His hair was a mess, as if he'd been pulling on it many times.

He hadn't shaved. When was the last time I'd seen him unshaven?

Goodness, it had to be way back, when he still...drank.

'Oh my God!'

I had been drinking and...

"Honey, you awake?" Dad sat on the edge of the bed, and I realized his shirt was wrinkled. So were his khakis. Actually, he was wrinkled. "Mercedes?"

I forced my tongue off the roof of my mouth.

"Yeah."

He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long, low breath.

"You've been asleep for over a day. I know it's normal after these kinds of injuries, but I didn't want to leave this room, until you opened your eyes. Your mother is going to be so upset she missed this. She decided to pick up food for us, just a few moments ago. Are you in pain?"

'Pain?'

Everything hurt...my stomach, my head, even my hand.

My gaze drifted to my right hand and I suspected the giant, freaking I.V. hooked up to it, was the culprit.

"Injuries?" I rasped out.

Dad reached out, picking up my left hand in his cool one. He squeezed gently.

"You hit your head pretty hard. It's a concussion. And you're pretty banged up, but the..." He squeezed my hand again. "Your spleen ruptured. There was no saving it. It had to be removed, and you needed a blood transfusion. Without a spleen, there are going to be some complications...issues with fighting off infections and..."

He continued on, but I wasn't really hearing him any longer.

My spleen had burst and I no longer had one.

Blood transfusion?

A concussion?

Dear God! I can't believe this is happening.

My mind raced back to the car, to the seconds before I heard the metal crunching and giving way.

"Did I hit someone?" I blurted out, ignoring the raw pain in my throat. "Did I hurt someone?"

Dad stopped and he stared at me so long, that panic built in my chest.

"Oh my God!" I croaked. "Did I hit someone? Did I? Oh God, I can't..."

"You didn't hit anyone, Mercedes." His throat worked as he stared down at me. "You hit a barrier wall on 495."

Only a smidgen of relief filtered through my system. I didn't hit someone. That was good, but I could've hit someone. Oh God, I could've killed someone.

"They ran a blood test. You were over the legal limit," he continued, his voice rough at the edges, and brittle. "You were drinking and driving."

Pressure increased as those words settled in, seeping through the confusion and taking root.

I'd drunk and drove. Had I done that before?

Never. I'd always waited at least an hour or more, before I drove. I always made sure.

Oh my God! What have I done?

Dad let go of my hand and his gaze moved to the blinds over the window.

"I've failed you," he said.

His words jarred me.

"Dad...you didn't fail me. This...this was all me. I...did this." Truer words had never been spoken. Tears rolled down my face. "I did this."

He shook his head.

"Your mother and I, even your brother, knew you drank. We kept telling ourselves that it wasn't that bad...that you weren't like me...that you wouldn't become like me. We were wrong." His gaze shifted to mine, and I saw that his stare was glassy. "I was wrong, but I will not let you become me."

The pressure was increasing, and it was becoming hard to breathe.

In the background, I could hear the beeps from the heart monitor increasing.

It wasn't just the drinking, I wanted to scream at him, but there were no words.

"And that's why we're stepping in right now," he continued doggedly. "As soon as you're well enough to leave the hospital, you're going into treatment. And it's not up for discussion. If you say no or you fight me on this..." His voice cracked, and my shoulders shook. "I will completely cut you off."

I could barely breathe.

Not because my family was forcing me into treatment.

Not because all choice had been stripped away from me. No. I could barely get enough air into my lungs, because, I had made such a reckless, irresponsible decision.

Not just one, but years' worth of them, and they've all been building and piling up on one another.

I could've hurt someone...or killed them. This was no longer just about me...this was too out of control.

"Do you understand?" My dad asked.

I completely understood.

Before I'd left the bar, I had realized that I needed to change, and now more than ever, I knew this.

I wasn't going to fight this. Not now.

I met my father's brown eyes and then his face blurred.

"Dad..."

The tears rushed me, and I was heedless of the sting they caused, when they hit the incredibly raw splotches on my face.

"There's something really wrong with me."

"I'm really proud of you."

My gaze shifted away from where Shay was perched on the edge of my bed. It was a day after I'd woken up in the hospital. I still hurt something fierce.

"You shouldn't be proud of me."

"Why not?" she asked.

I stared at the ceiling.

"I drank and then I drove. I could've..." Absolutely disgusted with myself, I pressed my lips together and shook my head.

"I'm not proud that you did that," she said. "But I'm proud that you're getting help."

Closing my eyes, I sort of wished I was asleep.

"It was my dad's idea."

"You could've fought it."

"He threatened to cut me off if I did," I told her, also wishing I had another blanket. It was chilly in there. "You know me. I like all my perks. Can't have that..."

"Knock it off," Shay snapped, drawing my attention. Her cheeks were flushed with anger. "I talked to your dad. You didn't even try to fight it. Not one second. You know you need help. And I'm proud that you're making that decision, so why are you acting this way?"

'Why?'

Because I didn't deserve her kind words, and I sure as hell didn't deserve anyone to be proud of me.

"I drank and I drove. I totaled my car. I don't...have a spleen anymore. I'm a loser. I'm going to have to go to court and I'm pretty sure I've lost my license. I'm not complaining. I deserve that."

My ass actually deserved to be in jail, and who knew, I might just end up there.

"Mercedes..." She sighed, as she tilted her head. A long length of dark hair fell over her shoulder. "You're not a loser. You..."

"I need help. I know." The wall I'd erected since my father left, crumbled a smidgen. "I know."

Her lower lip trembled, as she patted my hand.

"When Sam called and told us what'd happened, I thought my heart had stopped."

'Sam.'

Now my heart stopped.

This morning when my brother stopped by, he'd told me he'd seen Sam the night I was brought in.

At first, I'd thought that he had responded to the accident, but Roderick had ended up talking to him.

He said Sam had heard the call go out, but didn't realize until later, that it had been me. When he had, he'd come straight to the hospital.

"I thought I'd lost you," Shay whispered, her voice wavering.

I squeezed my eyes shut again.

Several moments passed, before she said,

"Caleb would've come with me, but I figured you probably didn't want a whole party in here." She paused. "Sam wants to see you."

"I don't want to see him," I said immediately.

"He is so..."

"I can't." I looked at her then. "Please. I can't see him right now. I don't want to see him right now. I can't...I can't deal with that."

It was bad enough that he had already been here. According to my brother, he'd actually been in this room, while I'd been asleep.

Embarrassment and hopelessness were an ugly, dark mixture inside me. Seeing him would break me, and I was barely holding it together.

I knew I had disappointed my family. Severely. And even though Shay said she was proud of me, I knew she was also dismayed.

Shay smiled weakly.

"Okay. I can respect that. And I know he will."

And he would. Sam was a good guy. He wouldn't push it.

If Shay told him I didn't want to see him, he wouldn't show. Now, more than ever, I knew I wasn't worthy of someone like him.

I was pretty sure my actions put me in the lowest of the low, like pond scum. Except, pond scum probably had a purpose, and what was my purpose?

To screw stuff up?

If so, I was exceeding expectations.

The morning I was discharged from the hospital, it was so hot, I swore I saw steam wafting off the asphalt.

It was a typical August morning, except, nothing was normal about that day.

I wasn't sure if anything would be normal again.

Only my dad and mom were present as I was wheeled out. No balloons or smiling faces.

But there really wasn't anything to celebrate, and I wasn't going home. I guessed it was a good thing, I hadn't gotten a pet.

Getting into the backseat was harder than I thought, since my tummy was still sore.

On the seat beside me was my suitcase. Mom had packed for me. We wouldn't even be stopping at my apartment.

The ride to the treatment center was quiet, and I was okay with that. I didn't want to make small talk, to pretend that everything was okay.

And I don't think my parents wanted to pretend either.

The center was outside the city, near Frederick, and in the middle of a long stretch of nothing.

We took an exit, I'd never even paid attention to before in any of my travels, and it took a good twenty minutes, before the car hung a right.

We passed a large sign with the words THE BROOK inscribed in the stone.

My first impression of the treatment center when we crested a hill, was that my dad got the place wrong.

This didn't look like a rehab. Oh hell no.

With the rolling, manicured hills surrounding a massive, rancher-style complex, the visible tennis court, and what appeared to be a pool the size of a house, it screamed country club and not rock bottom.

Dad followed the road up and under a large awning and the entry reminded me of a hotel.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced at my dad. His gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror. He nodded, and I suddenly wanted to cry...I wanted to throw myself on the seat and not move.

But my mom climbed out of the car and opened the back door. There would be no throwing myself on the seat.

I eased out of the car, my wide eyes focused on the glass doors and my heart pounding.

Mom reached between us, threading her fingers through mine. And I shuffled forward, my steps slow, as my father joined us, with my suitcase in his hand.

Cool air greeted us, as we stepped inside a large atrium. Up ahead was a reception desk, again reminding me of a hotel.

My father walked forward, stopping to speak with the woman sitting there.

"It's going to be okay," my mom whispered.

Doubtful.

I dragged in a deep breath and dull pain flared across my bruised ribs.

A tremor rolled through me, and my knees shook, as Dad wheeled around, his eyes meeting mine.

To the left of the reception area, a door opened and a man stepped out.

He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, and he was rocking a mad pair of hipster, black-rimmed glasses, that were as dark as his hair.

He wasn't dressed like someone who worked here, not with his khaki shorts and sandaled feet.

"Mercedes Jones?" He smiled at me in a pleasant way.

I jerked and glanced at my dad, then my mom.

"Yeah." I cleared my throat. "Yes."

"My name is Artie Abrams. Please follow me." He glanced at my parents. "You may also come."

My fingers were numb and tingly, as we followed him into a small room beyond the door.

There was another exit on the other side, the window glazed over. We weren't alone.

A nurse was waiting. In her hands was a blood pressure cuff.

Holy crap! this was like an episode of Intervention.

"Sit." Artie gestured at the green upholstered chair, next to the desk.

Nervous, I did as he requested, while my parents remained just inside the room.

The nurse approached me, smiling gently.

"I just need to take your blood pressure, hon."

I had no idea if that was normal or not, but I stuck out my arm as she asked,

"Do you take any medication?"

Mouth dry, I nodded as my mom spoke up.

"I brought her purse. She has sleeping pills and anxiety medication."

She opened the purse and rummaged around, until she found the three bottles. The nurse took them while I sat there, feeling like...well, a thousand different things.

"And there are the meds the hospital has her on," my mother finished.

I felt incredibly small, as the nurse looked over the bottles.

My skin was uncomfortable and itchy, as she placed them on the desk, stacking them up, like a three-person red-bottled army.

I wanted to shoot out of my chair and grab the bottles, throwing them through the little window, even the antibiotics. And then I thought,

'What's the use?'

Artie didn't speak, until the nurse had scribbled down my results and then handed them over to him.

He sat in a small desk chair and picked up a pen. Twirling it between his fingers, he glanced over a file.

"Do you have a cellphone with you?"

"Yes."

Without looking at me, he extended his arm and wiggled his fingers.

"Hand it over."

I stared at his hand for a moment.

He wiggled his fingers again.

"Sorry. For the first two weeks, you will have absolutely no contact with the outside world...no internet, no phone."

My eyes widened.

I was going to go stir crazy.

"It's...it's in my purse."

A second later, my mom had it and dropped it in his hand.

I glanced up at her, seeing lines around her eyes, I'd never noticed before.

Artie put my phone next to the bottles. Then he swiveled his chair towards me.

"Do you know why you're here, Mercedes?" he asked finally.

I thought that was a pointless question, but I answered anyway.

"I..." I closed my eyes briefly. My cheeks stung. "I have...a drinking problem."

He inclined his head.

"Is that the only problem you have?"

Pressing my lips together, I shook my head no.

"Do you know why you drink?"

Mute, I shook my head again, but it felt like a lie.

Artie looked at me and then turned a pointed stare on the bottles lined up on the desk.

"I think you do, Mercedes, but you're not ready to say those words. That's okay. My job is to get you, to not only say them, but to understand and accept them."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.

"Are you ready to do this? To accept help?"

I sucked in a shaky breath and my voice cracked when I spoke.

"Yes."

"Perfect. That's all I need to hear," he said, his bespectacled stare holding mine. "You've fought bravely this entire time, but you've lost this fight, Mercedes. The good news is that, you haven't lost the war. And you'll no longer have to fight this war alone."

Stay safe!