A loud knock on my door jerks me awake, and I squint at the morning sun pouring through my window. “Mr. Douglas, breakfast in ten minutes.”

I groan at Timothy’s voice, wanting no part of getting up yet. “I slept like shit, and I’m not hungry.”

“There’s no sleeping in, either.” I toss my pillow across my face and will Timothy to just go away. “I’ll be back in ten minutes to assist you if you aren’t downstairs.”

“Jesus. This is a fucking concentration camp,” I mumble to myself before sighing and tugging the pillow away from my face.

The dark hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I make my way over to my duffel bag and pull out some clean clothes. I eye the notebook Frannie gave me, lying on the dresser as I tug my black T-shirt over my head.

Think of songs that express how I feel, huh?

I grab the pen on top of the notebook and grip the cap between my teeth, pulling the pen free. I stare at the blank page that’s just begging for some words to be scratched on it. I glance around the small room, suddenly feeling very trapped in this place. Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” pops into my head, and I begin to hum the iconic intro and sing the words to the song, wondering if the front man of that band, Layne Staley, felt trapped in his own prison when he was writing that song.

I smile as I close the notebook, not elaborating on the lyrics of the song, simply writing the title and the band down. I’m sure that’s not exactly what Frannie had in mind when she asked me to document my feelings through the use of songs, but hey, at least I’m fucking participating in her little assignment.

I open the door to my room just in time to see Timothy, arms poised, ready to knock on my door once again to no doubt help me find my way to breakfast like he threatened moments ago.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise the moment I step past him and clap him on the back. “Heading there now, big guy, and as you can tell, I’m fit as a fucking fiddle—told you guys that I didn’t have an addiction problem.”

He sighs as he follows behind me. “Being hooked on benzodiazepines is no less threatening than any other addiction, Mr. Douglas. Anti-anxiety medications are powerful medications. It can take twenty-four hours for the first effects of withdrawal to appear. I’m guessing you dosed up before coming to us yesterday, so you’ll be jonesin’ for your next fix soon. But we’ll be here to help you through it.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but quickly close it because I’ve said it enough times to know now that, no matter what I say, they’re going to believe what they want—that I’m an addict. It’s why I’m here. Everyone working here, including Frannie, has lost sight of the fact that drugs can be used purely recreationally.

The moment my boots hit the first floor, my mouth begins to water and it’s not because of the delicious aroma of buttermilk pancakes wafting through the air. Frannie stands in the dining room, talking to a short balding man. She’s laughing again, and her face bears the same carefree expression she wore the very first time I spotted her—the one that drew me to her and made me crave the time in my life when I was that happy. She’s truly an exquisite creature; one I shouldn’t be thinking about the way I am. Frannie is off-limits. That’s been made clear to me by not only her, but the staff as well. That still doesn’t deter me. If anything, it only increases her allure.

She turns to me, smile still on her face, and says, “Good morning, Tyke. You look well this morning.”

I grin, knowing she, along with the rest of the crew here, fully expected me to be brought to my knees this morning, but I’m glad to prove them all wrong.

“Told you I’d be fine today.”

She tilts her head and examines my face like she’s ready to argue with me, just like Timothy did only moments ago, but she doesn’t. “Well, maybe I will see you today then.”

“Looks like it.”

I wink at her as I pass by her and head into breakfast.

“Red” – Taylor Swift

The green and orange sweater that Arnold, my nine thirty session, is wearing completely distracts me. First of all, it’s September, and while the constant beating heat of the summer has begun to drift into the crisp feeling of fall at night, it’s still too damn hot for a sweater.

I study Arnold’s features as he prattles on about never being liked in high school. It’s what he believes has led to his addiction issues. His short stature, coupled with his obvious beer gut and balding hairline, makes it hard for me to picture him as ever being young enough to be a teenager.

“The turning point is when I asked Lesley Peacock to the Junior Prom. When she turned me down, I couldn’t get over it,” Arnold explains as he continues to shrug his shoulders over and over as if he, himself, isn’t exactly sure about the story he’s telling me. “I think she broke my spirit, and I turned to drinking to cope.”

I’m not buying that. I know it’s not professional, but I want to roll my eyes. “Arnold,” I interrupt. “Are you saying that that one moment was impossible to get over? That one simple rejection sent your life onto the path of self-destruction? There’s nothing a little deeper that haunts your mind every day? Something you turn to alcohol to forget?”

Arnold’s lips pull into a tight line as his eyes drift up toward the ceiling. “Nothing that I can think of, Frannie.”

I glance down at my cell on my desk, noticing a new text message. “Our session time has come to a close. What I would like for you to think about is if there’s something else that bothers you, other than a girl turning you down for a date. Something else you try to escape.”