Shelley Steinley Design


woods of addiction

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Five minutes passed.

I couldn’t take the torment any longer. Down the stairs two, three, a section at a time, I bolted. Reaching the parking lot, I panned left, right, craze filled my eyes, overflowing their sockets.

Wiping mucus on the back of my hand, I flew into the greenbelt. I was a mad woman who’d lost her mind to depravity, not caring what sort of spectacle I became.

My perfectionist, he was perfect.

Blonde hair and blue eyes, my little boy. He held the door for old ladies, said yes ma’am and no sir to his elders, and “I love you, Mom”, before school.

He was sensitive.

Once, I remember he waited all day for a girl. I told him not to. I told him to go play, call a friend, have a tennis match, go to the park. But he didn’t listen to me. She never called. Loving her, he’d wasted his time. The next morning, he went into the woods and smashed his watch. Mad, not wanting its rules.

Bawling into a tree limb, using the bark instead of my hand, I called my mother-in-law. A sense of comfort amidst despair. 

I was still on with her when he rang. Frantic, I switched over.

“Mom, I’m sorry.” he wept uncontrollably, trying to catch his breath. I gushed in, “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Where are you?” I said. “Who’s with you?”

“No one.” He choked to breathe. “I’m at some office building, Mom, I’m scared.”

I ran to him. My shirtless, jeans hanging below his boxers, hair smashed to his face, drug of choice.  

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