Free Losing Track by Trisha Wolfe Page A

the small, insignificant details?
    Shit. I glance around. I’ve walked right past the door leading to the courtyard and ended up back at the rooms.
    Frustrated, I throw myself onto my bed and pull out a packet of gum. Ever since my first night here, when the nausea about killed me, I’ve been chewing minty freshness like I can chomp my way to freedom. Like I can chew back whatever vile, Exorcist substance might spew from my mouth. The mint helps.
    It has gotten better, though. The severe withdrawal symptoms didn’t come back after that first, initial purging. I’m not shaking, or sweating, or cramping. But it’s always on my mind; the want . The constant thought of snorting a rail, of that first bitter taste. The drop, and the numbing of my lips.
    The feel of the needle first grazing my skin. The, oh, so good burn. The rush .
    Just thinking about it makes me so anxious I’m about to chew through my tongue.
    “Hey.” My jail mate walks in and sits on the floor, leaning her back against her bed. “You didn’t feel like going, either?”
    I shake my head against the pillow. “Nope. Heard one tale of woe, you’ve heard them all.”
    I see her smile from the corner of my eye as she ties her curly dark hair back with a hairband. She’s this tiny, skinny, frail thing. Granted she’s sweet, but I can see some major rage boiling under her thin surface.
    “Right,” she says. “I’m feeling the same tonight.” She digs between her mattress and tweaks out a black and white marbled notebook.
    I instantly think of Dar and her journals. While Ari scribbles something along the margin of her page, I turn on my side.
    “You write poetry or something,” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve inquired anything of anyone here—and that’s not like me. I’m all about meeting new people, finding out about their lives. It’s a part of the road I love; learning the different walks of life.
    But in here, all I’ve wanted to do for the past week is contemplate escape. I don’t care to get to know any of them. I’m scared they will tether me more securely to this place. Make me one of them. That I’ll never get out.
    Ari shakes her head. “No, not poetry,” she says, and reaches under her bed and grabs another journal. “Here.” She tosses the notebook onto my bed beside me. “It helps the time go by faster. And ironically”—she taps her head—“it helps you get out of here.”
    “Yeah, thanks.” I pick up the black and white journal and trace my finger along the fabric of the spine. Memories flood my mind, my senses. I can smell the stale mothball scent of Darla’s old trailer.
    Forcing those painful reminders aside, rather, I dredge up the memory of the musty poem books that lined my bedroom shelves as a girl. They’re the only thing I regretted leaving behind when I left. Maya Angelou. Edgar Allan Poe. Lord Byron. Victor Hugo.
    It would be comforting to have those old friends here with me now. But it’s damn hard to cart around piles of books on a bike. A sacrifice made.
    “I used to write poetry,” I say, kind of out loud, mostly to myself. “I wrote it in my head while on the road. Just cool things I saw and wanted a way to remember.” I glance at her. “Can’t always stop to snap a pic while on a bike.”
    She squints one eye. “Wow, Mel. That’s deep.” She smiles to let me know she’s effing with me. “Well, in here, it’s better to put it in writing and get it out of your head. You don’t need mental snapshots of this place.”
    “True,” I agree.
    I go to reach for my pen and stop. Look back at Ari, curiosity making me nosy. “You don’t seem like you have a drug problem.” I make air quotes with one hand. “Why are you even here, Ari?”
    Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks like she’s considering whether or not to give me the real story. Then, “I don’t have one. Not technically. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was in middle school, and last year I got