7. - – Sienna
CHAPTER SEVEN
-
SIENNA
“And when you realized it could?” The question hangs between us.
For a moment, I can't look at her. I stare at the carpet instead. At the worn fibers beneath my shoes. Anywhere but at her; anywhere that could allow me to pretend this wasn’t my life.
Anywhere but the truth. A bitter laugh escapes me. “When I realized it could?” I repeat.
“When I realized I was going to lose him too, you mean.” The words taste wrong.
Like they're made of glass. My therapist doesn't interrupt but nods.
She doesn't rush me. Just waits for an answer I don’t want to say.
I let out a slow breath. “I stopped caring.” The confession comes easier than I expect.
Maybe because I've spent months running from it.
Maybe because I'm tired. Maybe because rehab has a funny way of forcing honesty out of people.
“I wish I could tell you there was some big moment.” I shake my head.
“A rock bottom.” A humorless laugh slips out.
“Something dramatic.” There wasn't. That's the scary part.
“No one wakes up and decides to become an addict or that this is the day I want to end it all. It is more like a realization over time” My voice softens.
“It happens slowly.” One choice. One bad day.
One excuse. Then another and another. Until one day you wake up and don't recognize yourself anymore.
I stare at the ring on my finger. Twisting it.
Again. And again. And again. “At first it was just Jax's medication.”
The first time I took one of Jax's pills, I stood in his bathroom for almost ten minutes.
Just stood there. Staring. The room looked exactly the same as the day he died.
His toothbrush still sat in the cup beside the sink.
His cologne still occupied the corner of the counter.
A blue towel hung from the rack where he'd left it after his last shower.
Mom couldn't bring herself to move any of it.
Neither could I; instead I allowed the ghost of his memory to haunt me.
Then as I stood there, I wondered if it would be easier to become a ghost as well.
Then we would at least be together again.
The air felt stale. Like the room had been holding its breath ever since he left.
I swallowed hard and opened the medicine cabinet.
Immediately regretting it. Orange prescription bottles stared back at me.
His name printed neatly across the labels.
Jax Sullivan. The sight of it made my stomach twist. For a second, I almost closed the cabinet. Almost walked away.
But then Kieran flashed through my mind.
The silence. The waiting. The sick feeling that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. And suddenly breathing felt impossible.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the bottle; I hated myself for how quickly I found it.
Like I'd already known exactly where it was, like it was somehow a part of me.
The plastic rattled softly when I picked it up. Too loud - everything felt too loud.
I stared at the label. At my brother's name. At the date it had been filled. At the number of pills still inside. A lump formed in my throat. "Sorry." The apology slipped out before I could stop it. The bathroom remained silent. Of course it did. The dead don't answer.
I laughed then. A broken little sound. Because somehow I had convinced myself I was asking permission.
As if Jax would appear and tell me it was okay.
As if there was any version of this where it was okay; that he would have allowed this.
Tears blurred my vision. I wiped them away angrily.
Then unscrewed the cap. The click echoed through the room.
My hands shook as I poured one pill into my palm.
Just one. That was the deal I made with myself.
Just one. Just enough to sleep. Just enough to make everything quiet for a few hours.
Just enough to stop thinking about my brother, about Kieran.
About the possibility that I was about to lose them both.
I stared at it for a long time. Long enough to change my mind.
Long enough to put it back. Long enough to do the right thing.
Instead, I tipped my head back and swallowed.
The pill stuck in my throat. For one horrible second I thought I might choke on it.
Maybe that would've been fitting. I reached for the sink and drank water straight from the faucet.
When it was done, I looked up. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror.
Red eyes. Shaking hands. Tear-stained cheeks.
I looked exactly like someone grieving. Exactly like someone falling apart.
Exactly like the addict I was about to become; I just didn't know it yet.
The words ache on the way out, as if I can still feel that first pill stuck in my throat.
Shame still lingering nearly a year later.
“He had pain pills left over.” I swallow.
“And anxiety medication.” A pause. “I told myself it was fine.” The lie sounds ridiculous now.
“It’s not like he needed them anymore .” The room feels suffocating as I shrug my shoulders.
Because hearing it out loud somehow sounds worse - crueler.
“I hated myself for thinking that.” My voice cracks.
“But apparently not enough to stop.” Silence- heavy and uncomfortable bounces between us, but what did I expect her to say?
What I did was fucked up; grieving or not.
“The pills made everything quieter.” I look down, focusing on the floor.
“At least for a little while.” No grief.
No waiting. No wondering why Kieran wasn't answering.
No replaying every conversation looking for the exact moment things changed. Just… Quiet.
“And after a while, I started chasing the quiet and maybe if I am honest the high that followed.” My therapist shifts slightly in her chair.
The movement is small. Almost unnoticeable.
But somehow it grounds me. “Do you know what the worst part was?,” I ask.
She shakes her head. I laugh. The sound is hollow.
“I knew exactly what I was doing.” The admission sits between us. Ugly. Raw. True.
“I wasn't in denial,” I say shaking my head.
“Not really.” I knew when I started taking too many.
I knew when one pill became two. I knew when two became four.
I knew when I started looking forward to it.
I knew when it stopped being a choice but a demand my body craved- needed to survive.
My throat tightens. “And I still didn't stop.”
For the first time since the session began, my therapist writes something down.
The scratch of her pen fills the room. I hate the sound.
“Is that what led you to rehab?” I let out a slow breath.
There it is. The question everyone eventually asks.
Not if. How. I nod. “Eventually.” The answer feels too simple.
Because the truth is rehab wasn't one decision.
It was a thousand tiny failures finally catching up to me.
“I checked myself in three months ago after my stomach had to be pumped.” My voice softens.
“Part of the program includes mandatory therapy.” I gesture vaguely around the room.
“So.” A weak smile pulls at my lips. “Here we are.” For the first time all session, my therapist smiles back.
No pity, no judgment. Just understanding.
The clock on the wall ticks. A reminder that our hour is almost over. And somehow… I'm relieved.
Because talking about Kieran hurts. Talking about addiction hurts.
But talking about both? That feels unbearable.
My therapist glances at the clock. Then back at me.
“We'll stop there for today.” I nod. Not trusting myself to speak.
As I stand, she closes her notebook. “Same time next week?” I grab my purse from beside the couch.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Same time next week.” And for the first time in a very long time… I think I actually mean it.