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Leaving

Healing Isn't Easy

By Kimberly MutaPublished 2 years ago 4 min read
1
Leaving
Photo by Hennie Stander on Unsplash

Leaving

Becky wiped tears off her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

“You’ll be okay, you know,” Val said, leaning over the edge of the top bunk. “I mean it. If anyone leaving New Hope has a prayer, it’s you.”

“I wish I could be as sure as you are.” Becky grabbed her large duffel bag off the floor and dropped it on the lower bunk. She opened the top dresser drawer, pulled clothes out of it, and placed them inside the bag. When she emptied the top drawer, she moved down to the next one and repeated the process. “I’m worried about using again.”

“I know. I bet everyone has that same fear,” Val offered.

“I don’t want to leave here. I love it here.”

“You love it because you got clean and you got saved here, but it’s just a crutch, Becky.”

“Who’s going to offer all this sage advice to you when you leave?”

“Good question.” Val pulled herself back up on the bed and laid her head on the pillow. “I guess I’ll just have to talk to myself.”

“I’m serious, Val. You’re my person. Who will be your person?”

“People come and go. I’ll find someone to connect with after you’re gone. Stop worrying about me. You’re just avoiding the thought of leaving by doing that. Face the facts, Becky!”

That was Pastor Dan’s favorite saying: “Face the facts.” He was forever using it when anyone began the game of denial and avoidance. Speaking of, Becky wanted to be sure to say goodbye to Pastor Dan, so she zipped her bag and reached a hand up to Val.

“Val, I love you. Look me up when you leave here, okay?”

Val took her hand, and in a dramatic gesture, raised it to her mouth and kissed it. “You know I will. Behave. Make good decisions.”

“Goodbye.”

“See you soon.”

Becky left the room and closed the door behind her. She heard a muffled sob from inside. At the sound, tears sprang to her eyes. She thought about going back in there, but she decided that if she did, she’d never leave. She chose instead to walk down the hall to look for the pastor. She finally found him in the communal space.

“Are you ready, Becky?”

She took a shaky breath. “I think so.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, echoing Val. “You have all the tools with you now that you need to stay clean. Use that number I gave you. Bill will give you a job and help you get back on your feet.”

“I will call him this afternoon,” Becky promised. “Goodbye, Pastor Dan.”

“Goodbye, Becky. I hope you’ll come back and see us in church.”

“I will.”

Becky walked out of New Hope Mission, hoping never to reside there again. She went to the bus stop, counted change out into her hand, and waited for the Number 10 to arrive. Once it did, she got on, and said, “Prospect Street.”

On the bus, Becky thought about staying clean. She knew the chances of relapse were high. So many people went to treatment two, or three, or four times. Some never got clean. She was scared to be one of those people. She didn’t want to die a junkie.

At Prospect Street, Becky got off the bus and walked to U Store It. She pulled a key out of her pocket and opened Unit 253, yanking the garage door up. Her beater car and her few personal belongings were in it. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and put her duffel bag on the seat, and then she climbed in the front seat. Leaning over to the right, she opened the glove compartment to find the keys. She rummaged around until she felt something prick her hand. Jerking back in pain, Becky muttered an expletive, and then she carefully felt inside the compartment to see what had pricked her. Her hand closed around three rigs rubber banded together with a plastic baggie.

“Shit.”

Becky looked at the syringes and the baggie of meth. She felt sweat begin to bead on her forehead. It was cold. Her hands were shaking. She knew what would make them stop. And she knew that if she did that, she would never get clean again.

She got out of the car and put the works into the pocket of her hoodie. The office was just a few units away, and she walked there quickly. Opening the door, she scanned the area for a bathroom before walking to the desk to drop off the key.

“I’m almost done with Unit 253,” Becky said to the desk clerk.

“Thanks,” he said. “Make sure you have everything before you leave.”

“I will. May I use your restroom?”

“Sure.” He pointed to Becky’s right. She walked toward it, taking short, shallow breaths. Once inside, she locked herself in a stall and took the works out of her pocket. She unbanded the syringes and the baggie. Starting with the baggie, she dumped the meth into the toilet. Then she broke the needles off the syringes and dumped them in as well. She flushed the toilet and left.

Becky walked through the office and stepped out into the sunshine. She took a deep breath and strode purposefully to her unit. She would call Bill, she would get a job, and she would be okay. She was finally ready to leave.

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Kimberly Muta

I am a 55-year-old high school teacher in Iowa. I have just begun to write creative works after thirty years of academic writing.

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