BOOK II.
Four months have passed since Ashton and Ria's relationship fell into ruins. He's convinced that she hates him and she believes he never loved her. Giving up on each other, they attempt to mend their loneliness in the arms of their past; Ch...
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THE LINOLEUM harnesses coils of forest green, sunkissed gold, and fiery red. Shades that are supposed to bring about a sense of positive energy while Ashton sits in Dr. Rosenberg's office. Each color is supposed to say 'You're strong! Stay drug-free! You can do this!'
All it reminds him of, as he waits in an olive cushioned chair, is the colors and shades that create Ria.
Sunkissed skin with flecks of gold dusted across her nose and cheeks. Fiery hair, rippling like flames in the fall breeze as she gazed at the starless skies. Hazel eyes that reflected the swirl of the earth and forests. Being in this office reminds him of her. Everything reminds him of her.
So whenever Ashton waits in this office, he lets his gaze wander to the ceiling like today and ponders over whether or not he should mention the crack in the egg-shell colored paint or the cobwebs collecting in the corners.
He thinks of anything but her until the familiar twist of the knob and swish of the door graces the silence.
"Ashton!" Followed by the click of the door closing releases him from his aerial thoughts. Rosenberg's usual over joyous voice attempts to lure Ashton from his dismal musings. "How are you?"
"Not good." He wastes no time getting to the point while adjusting his spine to sit straighter as Rosenberg approaches his desk.
Concern creases the lines of his face cracked from age. Moss-colored irises find Ashton's as he takes a seat behind his desk with mountains of paperwork and binders nearly concealing his face. He parts through the mess like Moses parting the Red Sea and rests his arms in the center.
"What's going on?" Though his eyes read: Have you relapsed? Are you staying in your safe places? Remembering your exercises? It's almost like disappointment is just waiting to creep into his gaze, hovering in the back, waiting to pounce and guilt Ashton.
"I'm struggling...to not want to use." He throws his hands out as electricity zips through his fingers. "Every day, I try and try all of these methods and I'm still fucking depressed and I still want it. Even if it's just the smallest hit. In the back of my mind, I think I won't fully relapse. I know I will if I do, but I just don't fucking care. I just want it." He becomes breathless. His veins tingle and buzz as he tries to express his struggles. Insects crawl and scratch his skin. The roof of his mouth and pad of his tongue dries and yearns for a taste of ecstasy.
It's like his body needs it in order to survive. He knows that's not true. Five months clean is proof that he doesn't.
"Why do you think you're struggling?" Dr. Rosenberg speaks softly and carefully. Carefully because it's been established that Ashton in an irritable state is difficult to reason with. There have been countless times where he unintentionally snapped during a meeting or session with other patients.
