Jennifer Lynne is a homicide detective working on one of the most horrific serial killing cases New York has seen in the last decade. When she and her partner get a lead on the suspect, they catch him with his seventh victim. But things go south and...
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The real reason why I didn't want to come to this meeting is because of what it forces me to feel. I don't care about facing my alcoholism; I recognize it, I've come to terms with it. What I hate is that it shoves me back into a time that I would much rather forget.
Sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, I listen to these people share their stories. Today, they talk about the moment they realized they needed to change their lives around. One woman talks about a "hell" story in which she went to hell and back. A man brings up the time he nearly lost his children. After they go, we clap and the guy leading the group, Paul, thanks them for sharing.
I've been avoiding his eyes this entire time, but he catches me. "How about you?" He says when I accidentally meet his gaze. "You're new, right?"
"Me?" I ask rhetorically. I clasp my hands in my lap and swing my legs. "I'm good."
"Nice to meet you, Good," he says with a laugh, and a few others give a pity chuckle. I roll my eyes. "What's your name?" He asks seriously.
With a sigh, I say, "Jennifer."
"Well, Jennifer, would you like to share?" He looks between the people around him in the circle. "We don't judge. We only listen."
Oh, I have a story. Hearing from everyone else forces me back to when I fucked up real bad. But I don't plan on sharing that story with anyone. "No, not today." When I get strange looks, I realize I forgot to add a pleasantry. "I'm not quite ready yet, sorry."
Thankfully, he doesn't give me any more attention and he moves on to the next person who volunteers. But their words go in one ear and out the other.
When I was a teen, you could say I ran with the wrong crowd. I dated this guy, Ricky. I thought he was the shit; hot, edgy, dangerous. But he wasn't the one that got me into the bad stuff to begin with. I had questionable friends, but my closest one was Lee.
Lee and I skipped school, smoked weed and snorted lines, and we occasionally broke into houses. It was one of her favorite things to do after school. And honestly, entering someone else's house and looking through their things, knowing they could come home at any minute was a better high than the drugs. But when I started fucking around with Ricky, things went to the extreme.
He wanted to break in when people were home. He liked to stand over them and imagine what it would be like to bash their brains in while they slept. He liked to push the line. I remember one time we broke into a house, and while the family was sleeping, we had sex on the couch downstairs. Ricky molded me into someone my family didn't recognize anymore.
But one time, we took it too far. Way too far. We broke in, and the owner woke up and caught us. Lee took off, disappearing into the night. But instead of fleeing, Ricky wanted to fight back. I screamed at him, begging him to leave with me. But he shoved me away and called me a pussy for wanting to run away. He attacked the guy. He put him in the hospital.
