The Newcomer

They call it a "restorative environment," which is rich, considering the walls are the color of overcooked oatmeal and someone screams into a pillow at least twice a night.

I’m in bed, but not sleeping. That’s for the hopeful and the heavily sedated. I’m just lying here, arms crossed like a corpse, staring at the crack in the ceiling that looks like a middle finger from God.

There’s a shadow behind the curtain. I see you, asshole.

He doesn’t move. Just lingers like mildew, all judgment and dead air. Watching me. Not even in a scary way—more like the way you watch a car crash in slow motion and wonder if the driver felt it coming.

I already know what he’s thinking. Filthy girl. Broken thing. Couldn’t even make it a week without someone crawling into me like a virus.

It wasn’t even good. He came with a whimper and left with my ChapStick. Classic.

This is my first time in rehab. The psych hospital was nicer—soft lighting, nurses who smiled too much, and chairs that didn’t make you question your last tetanus shot. This place? It’s rundown but up to code. Technically. The kind of place where you get better in theory, as long as you don’t touch the walls too long or drink the tap water.

They keep trying to crack the case of what’s wrong with Nikki. Like I’m a crossword they’re one letter away from solving.

“Schizophrenia with dissociative features.”

“OCD with hypersexual tendencies.”

“Complex trauma.”

“Drug-induced psychosis.”

“Treatment-resistant psychosis not otherwise specified.”

Honestly, it’s cute. The effort. But in here, we all have one diagnosis. One disease. Addiction. Reduced to our drug of choice and stripped of everything but our first name.

“Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our Traditions, ever reminding us that AA principles come before personalities.”

It was one of the last things I heard before slinking off to the bathroom with whats's-his-name.

But here’s the real riddle no one wants to touch: Am I really crazy if I know the voices aren’t real... even when they predict the goddamn future?

Not like lottery numbers. That’d be useful. No, they whisper in riddles. They tell me when people are going to die. Or relapse. Or fuck me over in new and creative ways. They warned me about the guy from the other hall.

The figure behind the curtain shifts—subtle. Almost bored. Like he’s waiting for me to fall apart again. Like they all are.

But I’m not going to cry. Not tonight.

Tonight, I’m just going to lie here in my government-issued sheets, bathed in fluorescent shame, and pretend I’m not waiting for the next voice to start whispering.

Because when it does… I’ll probably listen.

The knock on my door jolts me back to reality. Morning meds. My legs are shaking when I stand, but I manage to get to the door without falling over. The nurse gives me the little plastic cup like she’s handing out communion wafers. A ritual. Holy water for the damned. I swallow the pills without looking at her, the chalky taste sticking to my tongue.

By the time I get to the laundry room for chores, I’m still shaking off the dream, last night with Jerome, all of it. Cassandra is already there, folding linens as if she’s punishing them. She looks up when I walk in, her eyeliner smudged but still sharp.

“Rough night?” she asks, her tone casual but her eyes glaring.

“Something like that,” I mutter. I grab a towel and start folding, the fabric soft but heavy in my hands.

The silence between us is tense. It’s like she knows something, but she isn’t saying it. I focus on the towels, the repetitive motion calming in its monotony. Fold, smooth, stack. My jaw clenches and releases in time with the rhythm to my folding. A perfect multiple of three. Left, over, down.

The sound of screaming cuts through the quiet like a blade. A woman’s voice, raw and panicked, echoes down the hall. I jump, the towel slips from my hands.

“God damn it! Fucking great.”

Cassandra snorts. “Oh buddy this should be fun. You know they love sticking the crazy ones with the quiet ones. Keeps things balanced.”

“Balanced?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs, smirking. “Or it just makes for good entertainment. Who knows.”

We both laugh, awkward but necessary. The screaming fades as the woman is ushered into the nurses’ office, and the air settles again, heavy but quieter.

The cafeteria smells like burnt coffee and powdered eggs. The overhead lights buzz faintly, an annoying whine that gets under my skin. I sit at the end of the table, far enough from the others to feel safe but close enough to pass as part of the group. Jerome is already there, staring into his grits like he’s expecting it to conceal his secrets.

Cassandra slides into the seat next to me, her tray clattering against the table. “Hello again,” she says, too cheery for my comfort.

Do not trust her.

Tammy follows, balancing her tray like it’s a circus act. She’s all limbs and nervous energy, her hair pulled back so tight it looks painful.

She looks bald. I try not to laugh.

Mark trails behind her, his gait slow, deliberate. He has the kind of face you’d forget in a crowd, but his eyes are sharp, always scanning like he’s cataloging everything.

I feel Jerome glance at me once, then nothing. His silence is loud, deliberate. I take a bite of toast, chewing slowly, pretending I don’t notice.

“So,” Tammy says, her voice pitched high, “anyone else hear that fucking wailer they dragged in this morning? Or was that just me?”

“That was real,” Cassandra says, smirking. “You of all people should know that. You were a screamer too.”

Tammy shivers. “Yeah, well. Its still not something I want to get used to.”

Mark leans back in his chair, sipping his coffee like it’s a fine whiskey. “You’ll get used to it eventually. The detoxers always come in hot. Then they burn out or check out. Either way, the screaming stops.”

“That’s comforting, I suppose,” I say as my tongue refuses the eggs.

Cassandra elbows me lightly. “Don’t mind Mark. He’s our resident grim reaper. Real charmer, this one.”

Mark raises his cup in mock salute. “Guilty as charged.”

Tammy giggles, a nervous sound that makes me cringe. I glance at Jerome, hoping he’ll join in, but he’s still staring at his tray like they share the same grudge.

Cassandra notices too. She leans in closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “What’s with him?” she whispers, loud enough for everyone but Jerome to hear.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

She grins, like she knows I’m lying but won’t press. “Fair enough.”

Tammy’s fork scrapes against her plate. “I hate when they pair us up,” she says, changing the subject. “Like, just because we’re in the same boat doesn’t mean I want to share a paddle, ya know.”

“Especially when they’re coming down that hard,” Cassandra says, rolling her eyes. “Whoever gets that one? Godspeed.”

“Not it,” I say automatically, earning a laugh from the group.

“Good luck,” Mark says, his tone amused. “You're a quiet one, so my money is betting she's yours.”

I can feel the edges starting to soften. Tammy tells a story about her cat, a neurotic tabby named Mr. Pickles, and Mark chimes in with a deadpan joke about starting a support group for emotionally unstable pets. Even Cassandra, with her sharp tongue, softens for a moment, talking about some dive bar she used to frequent where the jukebox only played sad country songs.

Jerome stays quiet, his presence shrinking into the background. He doesn’t look at me once, and I realize that’s the point. He wants me to know he’s done, that last night was transactional, a withdrawal from the bank of my bad decisions. Trust me, pal. I've made no mistake about our intentions.

I should feel something—humiliated, angry, used—but I don’t. Not really. Instead, I focus on Cassandra’s laugh, Tammy’s awkward stories, the way Mark’s sarcasm has a warm edge beneath it. It’s not much, but it’s enough to get me through the moment.

The breakfast rush thins out, leaving a straggling trail of muffled voices and the clatter of stacking trays. Jerome gets up without a word, dumping his tray and sulking out of the cafeteria.

Cassandra watches him leave, her eyebrows raised. “Well. I wonder what's crawled up his ass.”

Mark snorts, and Tammy pretends to choke on her juice.

“Guess he’s not a morning person,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, but Cassandra catches the crack in my facade. Her dark eyes narrow, assessing.

“You’d think a guy who spends so much time in places like this would’ve learned to fake decent manners,” she says, her tone sharp. She pops a grape in her mouth, chewing with a smirk like she knows more than she’s letting on.

Mark shakes his head. “Jerome’s been playing the same game since I met him at a meeting three years ago. Pretends he’s here to get clean, but really, he’s just fishing for a fresh meat pocket with daddy issues.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mark. I thought you were the quiet one,” I say, piling my trash onto my plate.

Tammy gasps, her face reddening. “That’s awful. Why doesn’t anyone call him out?”

“Because he’s good at what he does,” Cassandra says, her voice low. “And because most of us are too lost in our own fuck-ups. You’d be surprised how many girls fall for his ‘I’ve been there, too’ routine. It’s disgusting.”

I stay quiet, poking at the cold eggs on my plate. Cassandra’s words sit heavy in my chest, but I refuse to let them crack me open.

Tammy looks at me, her head tilted like she’s trying to read my mind. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thinking about that woman from earlier. Wonder what her story is.”

Mark leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Does it matter? Everyone’s story is the same when you boil it down: bad choices, worse consequences.”

“Spoken like a true cynic,” Cassandra says, rolling her eyes. “Not everyone here is a lost cause, Mark.”

“Maybe not,” he replies, his tone casual. “But it’s easier to assume they are.”

Tammy sighs, her shoulders slumping. “You’re such a ray of sunshine. Remind me to call you when I’m feeling too happy.”

Mark smirks. “Anytime, Tammy.”

Cassandra nudges me with her elbow. “Ignore him. He thinks being miserable makes him more interesting.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound startling in its authenticity. Cassandra grins, triumphant, and for a moment, the weight of my own self-loathing feels a little lighter.

Back in the main hall, I take advantage of morning phone allowance. The receiver is heavy in my hand. The dial tone hums in my ear as I wait for Daniel to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice is groggy, like I’ve woken him up. Damn. I forgot about the three hour time difference.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say, my throat tightening.

There’s a pause that stretches too long, and when he finally speaks, his voice is sharp. “What do you want?”

“I just... I wanted to hear your voice,” I say, hating how weak I sound.

“Why?” he asks, but it feels like a slap. “What do you expect to hear? That I miss you? That I forgive you?”

I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I don’t expect anything. I just...”

“You just what?” he snaps. “You can’t keep doing this. Dragging me into your mess. I’m trying to move on, and you need to do the same.”

The words cut deep, but I don’t let him hear the sting in my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, his tone flat. “You always are.”

The line goes dead, and I sit there for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear.

When I finally put it down, I feel hollow, like something important has been scraped out of me. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stand.

It feels like I'm on death row heading to that cold empty bedroom. When I open the door, she’s there—the face I dreaded. Her face is sullen, her hands trembling. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and haunted.

“Hi,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. A far cry from the maniacal whirlwind that came before. They must have given her something really good.

“Hey,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

The door closes behind me, and for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I’m strong enough to do this.

At night I wrestle with demons. They still watch me from the shadows, waiting, daring me to destroy myself even more. Familiar foes who've stalked me since childhood. They wait patiently for me to lose the strength to hold my eyes open.

Then they drag me back to Hell…

The cold steel digs into my temple, an icy brand that feels like it might fuse to my skin. My breath hitches, shallow and frantic, as Chris’s voice bellows over the rattling of Pantera blasting from the amplifier.

The shed reeks of old cigarettes and mildew. The coffee table is cluttered—an ashtray spilling over with butts, a mountain of cocaine like a monument to his madness. Garbage lines the walls, empty bottles and wrappers.

“Do it,” Chris says, the gun pressing harder, forcing my head to bow in submission.

“I can’t,” I choke out. My throat feels raw, a knot of terror lodged so deep it’s strangling me. “Please, don’t make me. Please—”

My scream tears through me, raw and animalistic. It feels like my body is ripping apart, every nerve ending firing in panic. My hands claw at the air, at nothing.

“I wasn't asking, Nikki,” he screams into my ear.

A voice speaks up from the onlookers. The one sitting behind a beat up, secondhand drumset. “Hey man, if she doesn't wanna do it, she doesn't wanna do it. Im sure you can just pay Todd back later, bro. It's not that serious.”

The chamber of the .38 Special clicks, and the sound isn’t just in my ear—it’s inside my skull, rattling like a death knell. I hear the bullet’s metallic shuffle, the promise of it hurtling through the air, splitting bone and flesh.

My teeth clench as my lungs seize. Tears pour down my face, blurring the dim light from the hanging bulb. My chest heaves, but I won’t breathe. I won’t let the air in. If I breathe, this will be real.

“Please,” I scream, one last time.

The explosion rips through the silence—a deafening roar, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

I wake up choking on my own breath. My throat burns, my chest heaving like I’ve been running for my life. When I open my eyes, lingering tears spill from the sockets. The room is dark, but my reflection stares back at me from the window—a shadow of myself. I don’t recognize it. My face is damp, my hands curled into fists around the sheets, and there’s this taste in my mouth, like pennies or bile. For a second, I can still feel it: rough hands, my head yanked back so tight I thought my neck would snap, a voice I’ve tried to forget rasping in my ear.

Todd didn't let the worst happen. Todd was decent enough, I suppose. But that didn't stop Chris from nearly bashing my head in. I suppose a seizure is better than death, or whatever plans they had for me.

I wake up quickly and sit up too fast, and the room spins, my stomach lurching. I press my palms into my eyes, hard enough to see stars, and try to slow my breathing. The walls of the room are too clean, too white. I hate how still they are.