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"Today makes day 97, 2,328 hours, and about 139,680 minutes, but aye who's counting." The room erupted with laughter at the simple, but much relatable banter. Head nods and echoes of agreement, as they all sat in the run-down building sharing warrior stories of their past. "That shit get a hold of you down in yo bones. Makes you feel like you need it, without it you can't breathe. Ain't no life with it, but ain't one without it. You feel me? That high feels like rainbows and shit, even on the cloudiest of days. So these lil' ass 97 days might not look like a lot, but it means something to a nigga. To my boy. Shit, I'm down bad like a mu'fucka, a nigga ain't even lit a cigarette."
"Okay, thank you for sharing Mr. Ames," the counselor spoke, standing from the chair she occupied. Her timid hands clung tightly to the crinkle agenda that she never stuck to. Eyes dancing nervously over the group of peers she was tasked with keeping clean. "But once again as a reminder, let's keep our language clean. This is a professional setting."
"This dirty ass building, the water don't even come out clear in the faucets, Ms. Tisha. Talkin' about professional setting," he mocked to his neighbor as he sat down. "And shit if we can't say what the fuck we feeling, what we here for?"
"Let us act like we have some couth and not like animals," she shouted back in frustration. The way he constantly threatened her authority was aggravating. Whip flash was certainly what Mr. Ames experienced as he snapped his head in her direction. Everybody in the room hanging to the edge of their seat, to the showdown that was them. "Fuck that suppose to mean? Who the fuck is an animal Tisha?"
Her face reddened, and her eyes bucked in fear. "I—I—I did not mean it in that way Mr. Ames, please do not take my works out of context." Strutting memorialized her vomit of words. She pushed the strands of her light brown 3C curls from her face, mentally counting the moments until she could dismiss everyone.
Syrai pushed further into her seat, pulling at the strings of her black sweater to conceal her identity. Embarrassment was what covered her soul as she looked around the room and saw herself. Addicts. She had never really referred to herself as an addict, but the truth was Syrai had been engrossed with a plethora of addictions. But sitting in this room right now, she felt low. Even in her weakest moments, she tried to be strong. A survivor of the coldest of nights wrapped in the lap of luxury. Riches, diamonds, and even pearls could not combat the loneliness she felt throughout her life. Sitting amongst the crowd of people, Syrai never felt like she belonged more than now. She was them and they were her. Her lip drew into her mouth as she watched the door, praying for an escape. Attending this meeting was supposed to be a remedy for her soul, but somehow she had faltered out of the waves of emotions that hearing others' stories would do to her. Truly, when you thought life handed you lemons, there was always someone who was given limes.
"Girl they do this shit ever meeting," the woman next to her laughed. "Acting like we can't see. Shit everybody knows them two fucking each other."
Syrai nodded awkwardly before turning to face the front of the room. Ms. Tisha's skin looked drained. This whole meeting was a shit show from beginning to end. Her nose crinkled at the smell of a cigarette being lit next to her.
