My own pink shoes were the last thing I saw. Then, darkness. I tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle in those final moments but nothing seemed to fit. I was supposed to go to work that morning.

Supposed to. That would haunt me. I was supposed to do a lot of things. I was supposed to pay my rent on time, I was supposed to pick my daughter up from school, I was supposed to meet my husband for dinner that night. It seemed none of that would be happening now.

That morning, after taking the dog out for a walk, dressing Mia for school, and taking a pilates class at the Y before work, I sat in the car, dressed and ready for work. But I couldn't seem to move. I sat there, staring at my 19th century farmhouse with the manicured lawn and rocking chair on the wrap around porch. I felt sick. It was then I knew I wouldn't be going to work.

I finally turned the ignition and took off in the opposite direction. I didn't know where I was going, just that I had to get there fast and where ever it was, it couldn't be safe.

I found myself in my old neighborhood. The windows were still boarded up, kids still played in the streets, oblivious to school being in session. Teenage moms pushed their babies down the streets in rickety strollers and their baby daddy's hunched against walls, ready to deal. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to relapse. And it was going to be wonderful.

I pulled up to a particularly gruff looking kid, who slouched closer to the car. I felt the familiar thrill of slipping him forty bucks for a rock. I smuggled it back home. I injected it. And then I saw my shoes. It was getting very cold.

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SarahC (joined almost 12 years ago)

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