Chapter 3 Maxx
chapter
three
maxx
there was a five-inch crack in the plaster above my head.
If I stared at it long enough, it seemed to grow and move right before my eyes.
I blinked and it stopped. Then it would start all over again.
Right now, that fucking crack was the most interesting thing in my life.
What a depressing realization.
“It’s time for group, Maxx.”
I didn’t bother to look toward the voice coming from the doorway. The air was stale with the smell of sweat and too much Axe cologne. My roommate, Dominic, an obese pothead, seemed to think that dousing himself in that shit replaced the necessity of a shower.
It was day eighteen at Barton House, a state-run rehab facility that had, for a brief period, seemed like the ticket to starting over.
I was now starting to rethink everything.
It had been easy to make the decision to come here. In the beginning I had been coming off the worst withdrawals of my life. I was still reeling from the fact that I had almost died and that all the people I loved had left me.
I had been alone.
Completely and totally alone.
I had not been in a good place.
So I came here thinking this was my new lease on life. This was my opportunity to show everyone that I didn’t want to end up another scary statistic in a brochure about addictions.
I would beat this shit before it beat me.
But then the days started to drift into each other, and once the initial desperation had worn off, I was left with the second-guessing.
Because the physical withdrawal was long gone. The seventy-two hours in the detox unit had taken care of that.
Now I was left with all the urges that came after my body had returned to stasis. The ones that were entirely in my head. The ones that made it really hard to stay.
Because the longer I stayed here, playing the part of the recovering addict, the harder it would be to face what waited for me out there.
The things that I missed so damn much.
Aubrey.
Landon.
The club.
The fucking drugs.
Always, always the drugs.
“Maxx. Seriously. Come on.”
I let out an overly dramatic breath, feeling more than a little irritated.
I swung my legs off the bed and slowly sat up.
I refused to look at Pete, the rehabilitation assistant.
I ran my hands through the hair that hung in my eyes.
I needed a haircut. But there was no way I was getting ahold of a pair of scissors in this place.
Too tempting to slice a vein or two, I guess.
Nope, can’t let the recovering addict have access to pointy things.
“Getting depressed is normal . . .” Pete started to say.
Jesus Christ, kill me now!
I wasn’t entirely sure what Pete’s job was at the clinic.
He wasn’t a counselor. He didn’t lead any support groups.
He just walked around trying to talk to the patients about their feelings.
He was overly self-righteous, seemed to think he had the inside track on everyone’s addiction.
It was more than obvious he was floundering through his dead-end job.
And no matter how many token buzzwords he used, he sounded like someone trying way too hard.
I stared at him, eyeballing him through narrowed slits.
He wasn’t much older than me, but his thinning hair and sad comb-over made him look middle-aged.
He suffered from a clear case of bad genetics, poor bastard.
I watched Pete swallow audibly and take a noticeable step back into the hallway.
I intimidated him. For a brief second, I got a sick sense of satisfaction from that.
Then I felt slightly guilty for enjoying his discomfort.
The old Maxx would have loved his reaction.
I would have used his clear intimidation to my advantage.
But this Maxx didn’t do those things. And honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.
I didn’t know how to be without the drugs in my system.
I had to learn how to be this stranger taking up residence in my own skin.
I had to develop a personality separate from the drugs.
And I wasn’t exactly sure how to do that when so much of who I was had been wrapped up in a scene I was forcing myself to leave behind.
“I’m not depressed. I’m bored,” I told him. I got to my feet and followed Pete out into the hallway.
I had checked myself into rehab convinced I was making the right choice.
Hell, it was probably the only choice I had.
When I got out of the hospital, I had been coming off the aftereffects of a crash course in detox.
My body had been weak and my mind even weaker.
I had felt horrible, both physically and mentally.
I couldn’t remember a time I had ever been so low.
But all I could think about was making things right again.
Because Aubrey had left me. Smashed my fucking heart and walked away without looking back. I both hated and loved her for that.
I was miserable without her, but it was also the swift kick I had needed to make some serious changes. For the first time in my life I had wanted something more than the drugs. I still wanted that rush. I was scared I always would. But more than anything else, I just wanted her back.
So I had been convinced that I could change. That I could be a better person. That I’d clean up my act here at Barton House, then get out and sweep Aubrey Duncan off her too-good-for-me feet.
But the initial sense of desperation to get my life in order that had gotten me through my first week here was fading fast as the reality of this depressing, hopeless place started sinking in.
The lure of my old life was poking me in the subconscious.
Reminding me that it was still there, waiting for me.
And the longer I stayed locked behind these walls, the more I wavered between wanting to do things right and wanting to get back to the life I used to have.
The one where I didn’t feel so small and helpless.
The one where I felt in control.
Because here I was most definitely not in control.
Every second of every day was monitored and accounted for. I couldn’t take a piss without someone knowing where I was and what I was doing. And losing control, my autonomy, on top of everything else was proving almost too much to handle.
But when I thought back to what rock bottom had looked like, I did my best to push aside my inner grumblings and go to group. Sit through therapy and vow that I would never allow myself to be that person again.
But every day was a new battle between the old Maxx and the new one. And I never knew which one would win.
“Is your brother coming this weekend?” Pete was asking, though I barely heard him.
“Huh?” I asked as we walked down the hall toward the conservatory where the support group was held.
“Is your brother coming up for visiting hours this weekend? It would be a great opportunity to utilize family counseling. That’s a huge part of the program. It could be a great step for both of you.”
My hands clenched into fists, and I had to work hard to control my reaction to the innocent question.
My feelings about my little brother were all messed up. Guilt and shame and anger. It was a festering cesspool of twisted, dark stuff inside of me.
The memory of Landon’s visit to the hospital, looking at me with absolute disgust while I lay in that bed, was still heavy on my mind, every day.
I had tried to talk to Landon, but he wouldn’t hear me. And after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence he had turned and left.
Finally, he sees you for the worthless shit you really are. He’ll hate you forever, Maxx. And you fucking deserve it, my uncle David had sneered before following my brother out of the room.
That had been the last time I had seen Landon. I had attempted to call him several times over the last few weeks but was put through to his voice mail every time. I knew it was completely intentional.
My brother was avoiding me. Not that I blamed him. I had disappointed him. Shattered the illusion he had held of his competent and capable older brother. I stopped being the guy he could count on, and I only became the failure. Knowing how he felt about me, the real me, was my biggest shame.
I had never intended for him to know the truth about me. He had been my responsibility since the death of our parents. I hadn’t wanted him exposed in any way to the ugly reality I lived in. But now he had been. And because of that, he wanted nothing to do with me.
“No, he’s not coming,” I said shortly, grinding the words out like glass in my mouth. I was done talking about him.
“Why not? It would be an excellent opportunity—”
I cut Pete off with an angry grunt. “He’s not coming, all right?”
Pete was clearly flustered by my response.
I shrugged, unapologetic, and left him rambling about taking advantage of services or some shit.
I shouldn’t have snapped at Pete. He was just doing his job, whatever that may be.
But I couldn’t talk with him, or anyone, about Landon.
I entered the conservatory and found a spot in the circle of chairs.
This support group was the same as the last one I had attended on the LU campus in a lot of ways. Same topics, same overly emotional talking points. Same mundane activities meant to make us “think.” But it was the one significant difference that made sitting here day after day extremely difficult.
I love you so much, Maxx. I do. And that’s why I can’t watch you kill yourself. I won’t.
It had been weeks since I had spoken to Aubrey, but the decimation remained. And I couldn’t think about Aubrey without thinking of other things. Gash. Marco. The club. The world I had lived in that was as much of an obsession as Aubrey could ever be.