Memoirs Aren't Fairytales- A Story of Addiction PDF
Preview Memoirs Aren't Fairytales- A Story of Addiction
Copyright 2011 Marni Mann This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected] Cover Design by Greg Simanson Edited by Rachel Brookhart This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional. Print ISBN 978-1-935961-29-1 EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-033-7 DISCOUNTS OR CUSTOMIZED EDITIONS MAY BE AVAILABLE FOR EDUCATIONAL AND OTHER GROUPS BASED ON BULK PURCHASE. For further information please contact [email protected] Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961145 DEDICATION To Susan, my light. Contents ACKNOWLEDGMENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR More Great Reads from Booktrope Editions ACKNOWLEDGMENTS From the conception of my novel to its birth, you've stood by my side, Mom. Your endless support and advice gave this book the love it needed. When I had doubt, you never stopped believing. Dad, I never would have made it here if you hadn't listened to my rants. My P, Nicole Vander Clay, you caught me before I fell. Your words brought me to the place I needed to be. Nina Kesner, your excitement was and always will be a force that drives me to reach further. Jen Howard, I will never be able to thank you for everything you've done. Your guidance and wisdom made this novel shine. Jane Ryder, you always made me smile; your support will never be forgotten. Jody Ruth, my partner-in-crime, your voice kept me going when I thought I couldn't take another step. Melissa Roske, you pushed me to find the right words. Your feedback made them sparkle. Katy Truscott, Kathy Dieringer, Junying Kirk, and Pat Mann, I couldn't have done this without your love and support. To the crew, Erin Burke, Mike Lucido, Katie and Dan Kinnetz, thanks for the inspiration and amusement. Never say never, right? Rachel Brookhart, I appreciate all your hard work and commitment. Greg Simanson, thanks for bringing life to my novel. Krista Basham, thank you for being the best manager I could ever ask for. This journey wouldn't be the same without you, and I'm honored to have you along for the ride. Katherine Sears and Ken Shear, thank you for giving me a chance and for believing in me. Tess Hardwick, you made this all possible and I will be forever grateful. Big hugs, my friend. Codi and Bella, you have my heart. And Brian, my dreams are all possible because of you. Don't ever stop holding my hand. I love you. The wall that I built To bind myself in the dim When the world outside Pierced through my skin And the steel breeze Swept away my dreams Another day forgotten For I felt no pain No noise Or echoes Because I was numb Like a cold body Frozen in a chained box These dark walls Lost dreams Tainted frames Were all that I owned And the days and nights Looked akin So I conversed in the mirror Where nobody could break in Or soothe my fading soul -N J http://www.nithinjacob.com/ CHAPTER ONE Eric sat behind the wheel of his beat-up '89 Toyota Corolla. His seat was so close to the steering wheel his knees hit the dashboard, and he couldn't see out the rearview mirror. He hadn't complained once about having no legroom or that his back was slumped forward because there was an enormous box of clothes behind his seat. His lips were stuck in a perma-grin, and his eyes were wide and glued to the taillights of the car ahead. It had taken us almost six hours to reach the border between New Hampshire and Massachusetts when it should have taken less than four. Eric said the rabbit —what he had named his Corolla because the thing wouldn't die, like in those battery commercials— topped out at sixty. I didn't think all the extra weight was healthy for the rabbit either. I could hear the poor thing chugging. Eric had emptied his entire bedroom and packed it all into the backseat and trunk. A lampshade teetering on top of a pile of clothes kept jabbing into my head, and the corner of his TV rubbed against my elbow. But I didn't complain either. I hadn't put that much thought into packing. I grabbed some pants from my closet and some dirty shirts that were on my floor. I swiped a few toiletries from the bathroom and crammed it all into two backpacks. The ounce of weed I'd scored the night before went into my purse, and that's all I brought. No one ever left Bangor; we called it The Hole. There was something about the place that sucked you in and kept you in shackles. If you went away for college, you never came back. If you stayed in-state like Eric and me, you were a Bangor lifer. No matter how much money you tried to save or plans you put together, you'd end up, years later, married to someone you met in high school, with kids, a Labrador, and a Cape Cod house. And then it was too late to leave. You had to escape as a teenager. It was the only way. Two weeks earlier, Eric and I had been sitting in his car. It was late at night, and we were passing a bowl between us. He went on about his dead-end job at the auto repair shop, never having any money, and the nerve of his parents for charging him rent. My advice had always been the same: I told him to go back to college. He never should have dropped out in the first place. But that night, my advice was different. A month before, I'd dropped out of the University of Maine, halfway through the spring semester of my sophomore year. I'd quit my
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