The False House
I've spent the past year now sitting in the same chair, seeing the same slur of familiar faces and listening to the same old man remind us all about how much we've fucked up our lives. "But don't worry," he says, "there's still hope." The look of complete apathy we always wore would beg to differ—it's not like any of us chose to be here.
I started smoking weed when I was probably fourteen. And that was fine for quite some time. But with your father dead and your mother constantly working at the hospital, you get . . . bored. And I got bored. So when I was nineteen or so, I used some of the money Mom always had lying around the house and decided to buy some of the little green pills all the junkies at school were selling. It turned out to be oxycodone, and I got hooked pretty fast. As the story goes with every worthless pill head, I fell into some bad habits. I'm twenty-three now, and about a year ago I got into trouble with the law. Long story made short, I was forced into mandatory drug counseling with a bunch of assholes here for the same reason. It's been a fate maybe worse than prison.
So just like I do every Thursday afternoon, I lazily fall into the chair I claimed as my own. I watch them all file in, slouching and sluggish—and probably fucked up on drugs. The therapist, Mr. Murphy, sits at the head of the circle and takes his sweet time fixing his tie and sipping his Coke.
"Alright," he clears his throat and adjusts his little, round glasses. "We have a new body present today."
I didn't even notice a different face; apparently none of us did because we are all scanning the circle for fresh meat.
"You know who you are—tell us your name."
"My name's Jesse," he says.
A deep voice to the right of me makes me yank my head in its direction.
Jesse
. He looks nice enough—golden-green eyes and pouty lips. I can't help but smirk. He just looks too young and too innocent to do
anything
wrong—much less drugs. His hair was messy atop his head; not sure if he knew it or not but the lazy look makes the ladies loco. There's really just something about this guy that I can't put my finger on—his aura exudes an accidental arrogance that masks what can only be described as complete and utter chaos.
"How old are you, Jesse, and what is your addiction?"
There's a nonchalant shrug and a grin. "I'm twenty-one, and I'm addicted to a lot of drugs. The one I'm here for, though, is Klonopin."
"Okay," Murphy says without even looking away from his notepad, "let's get on with our day, shall we? How can we channel our desires to get high into something productive?" He sweeps his eyes around the room from above his glasses. "Anybody? No? Okay. How about you Roman? What would you suggest?"
He has a tendency to pick on me because I have a tendency to keep quiet. Lazy, though, they may be, the others still display an impressive amount of effort. They must really want to change—I, on the other hand, could not care less. I let out a deliberately exasperated sigh. "I don't know, Murph."
