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  Escaping the Edge Copyright © 2016 H.M. Sholander

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, media, events, and incidents are either a product of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9978402-1-6

  Cover Design by ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Edited by Chelsea Kuhel

  Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  I’m not an addict. I don’t have a problem. But, that’s what every addict says, isn’t it? The addiction becomes something you need with every fiber of your being. Living without it is nearly impossible. The need runs through your veins. It takes over your brain and tells your body you can’t go a day without getting plastered or high because if you do your whole world will fall apart. You wouldn’t have anything to live for without the very thing your body needs…craves.

  I can’t recall the exact moment it started. It was ingrained in my life like I was meant to fall down this path. My life has always revolved around drinking. My mom and dad spent every night getting drunk out of their minds, leaving me to clean up the mess.

  As a child, I was taught that this was an acceptable way to live. I never knew that alcohol and drugs would consume my life and destroy me. I was naïve. I should have known better. I lived it, so why couldn’t I figure it out? It destroyed my chance of becoming the woman I dreamed of as a child. Once, I dreamed of becoming a drummer. That’s a big dream for a little girl with no future ahead of her...a little girl with parents who couldn’t care less what after school activities she wanted to partake in.

  I guess that’s why I never saw anything wrong in what I was doing. That is until I lost the one person I never thought I would. Grayson. Not only did I lose my boyfriend, but I also lost my best friend. The person I ran to when I was in trouble. The one I couldn’t go a day without seeing. My everything.

  I thought we were invincible together. It turns out we weren’t.

  ONE

  One Month Ago

  My phone rings somewhere in the distance. I hear the annoying ringing over and over again, but I can’t get to it. The room spins as I lift my body from the couch, so I squeeze my eyes closed as tightly as I can. When I open them¸ everything is standing still. I let myself fall back onto the safety of the warm couch. I vaguely hear the phone ringing again from wherever the hell I left it, but there is no way I’m getting up and risking falling flat on my ass.

  When I got home from work, I downed a whole bottle of wine. I didn’t have a bad day, but I needed the alcohol. My body called out for it. I started with a glass of wine and somehow drank the whole bottle. I’ve been drowning myself in alcohol for a long time. Too long. I curl into a ball on my couch and fall into the darkness that’s been trying to pull me under for the last hour.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! My bloodshot eyes pop open.

  “Avery!” Emily's voice shouts as the banging continued. “Open the damn door!”

  I peel myself off the couch with my long blond hair sticking to the side of my face and drag my feet to the door. It's a miracle I make it to the door, but the wall helped to support me along the way. When I see Emily’s panicked face, I know something's wrong. Her hair is in disarray, and she looks completely freaked.

  “What are you doing here?” I question as I glance at the clock seeing it’s past midnight. “Did you drive all the way over here?”

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I’ve called you five times.”

  “I didn’t hear it,” I lie.

  Emily studies me, which makes me uncomfortable. “Have you been drinking again?” she probes as she pushes her short brown hair out of her chocolate brown eyes.

  “I slipped tonight,” I lie, again. I don’t mention that I have slipped every day for the last month.

  “It’s Grayson. You need to come with me, now.” She pushes her way past me into my apartment. She rifles through my belongings looking for who knows what, but I don’t have the willpower to stop her intrusion.

  “What do you mean? Is he hurt? Where is he?” My mind conjures up every terrible thing imaginable that could have happened to him. If I could see my own reflection, I know my blue eyes would be full of panic, and my normally tan skin would be as pale a sheet of paper.

  “He’s in the hospital. We need to leave.” She thrusts my shoes and purse at me in a panic. Before I even manage to get my second shoe on, she's shoving me out the door. “Let’s go. Bryan is waiting in his truck.”

  My mind spins fifty miles an hour, but my body can’t seem to catch up. I don’t know what happened to Grayson, but I can only pray it isn’t serious.

  We have barely started getting back into the swing of being friends. We dated for five years before we broke up because of my own stupidity. I screwed things up with him nine months ago, and I took the time apart from him to get my life in order. Or, so I thought. I managed to stop drinking for a week and take on fewer responsibilities at work. But, I could never last longer than two weeks without falling into the evil of alcohol all over again. Withdrawals were a bitch, and if I'm being completely honest, even during those weeks where I didn’t drink myself to death, I did still have at least one glass of wine. I knew Grayson would never take me back if he knew I was drinking again, so I binge drank when I knew I wouldn’t see him. Problem solved. Yeah right. That was only an illusion to fool myself.

  By the time we make it to the hospital, I have chewed off all of my nails and worried myself senseless. I’m a freaking nervous wreck, to put it lightly.

  We head straight to his room after rushing through the sliding glass doors of the hospital. I assume Emily and Bryan know where we’re headed because they don’t stop at the front desk to ask for his room number. We stop in front of room 495. I freeze in the doorway; my feet glued to the ground. I can’t make myself walk in his room because maybe just maybe if I don’t pass over the threshold, I'll wake up from this nightmare.

  “Avery, are you coming?” Emily asks as she holds out her hand for me to take.

  I don’t answer her. Instead, I stare at the door and hope like hell the love of my life is still alive on the other side. I greedily grab her hand as if it’s a lifeline that can save me as she pushes open the door, and we step into my own personal hell.

  Grayson is lifeless in a hospital bed with tubes shoved down his throat and needles sticking into both of his arms. He has stark white casts on his right leg and left arm, which are both elevated by pillows. A bandage wraps around his head hiding his shaggy brown hair, and bruises cover his face. I drop Emily’s hand and run to Grayson’s side without an ounce of hesitation. I take his limp hand in mine and sense how cold it is. Tears roll down my face as I s
tare down at the love of my life in a hospital bed completely broken and motionless. That fact alone scares the shit out of me.

  I manage to find my voice after a few minutes. Although, through my tears, it’s a miracle anyone knows what the hell comes out of my mouth. “What happened?”

  “He was in a car accident.” Emily places her hand on my shoulder for comfort, but I don’t want it. I want Grayson not to be laying in a hospital bed fighting for his life. “He was hit by a drunk driver.”

  “Is he going to make it?” I'm about to lose the last bit of my strength and break down. No one would be able to bring me back from the despair. Only he could.

  “I don’t know,” she whispers.

  I sit by his bed for several hours waiting for someone to tell me anything. Anything is better than not knowing a damn thing. I hate waiting around especially in this situation when I have no idea what's going on with Grayson. I just want to know if he's going to make it. I want to know if I'm going to hear his laugh or see his gorgeous smile again while his crystal blue eyes shine back at me in wonderment. I want to know if I'll ever feel his arms wrapped around me or taste his kiss.

  There’s a light knock on the door as it opens. His parents, Sofia and Christopher, enter the room with sadness and heartbreak in their eyes. I stand from the uncomfortable hospital chair and hug his mother. She instantly starts crying, which doesn’t put my worries at ease. I attempt to be strong on the outside, but my tears make their way down my face faster than a leaky faucet. His father embraces us both and sandwiches us in a hug. We manage to pull ourselves together enough to crowd around Grayson’s bed. Each of us holding onto a piece of him in our hearts and minds. A piece that we will never be able to replace.

  Emily and Bryan left me alone with Grayson an hour ago, so I know they're outside anxiously waiting to find out the news his parents have to share.

  “What’s going on?” I ask meekly.

  The instant the question is out of my mouth his mother breaks into a round of hysterics. His father comforts her while looking at me with sad eyes. He merely shakes his head no, and I know everything in my life has changed for the worst.

  I wish they hadn’t told me anything

  Because now, I’ve lost everything.

  I’ve lost my reason to live.

  TWO

  Present Day

  I squirm around on the cold metal chair, attempting to get comfortable. It’s pointless, though, because metal chairs are designed as a form of torture. Couldn’t they have added some padding, so my ass isn’t cold and doesn’t become numb after ten minutes? The numb feeling does help eliminate the problem of a cold ass. There is one upside…I guess.

  The lights are off in the small space, and candles are lit all over the room creating a soft glow. An old couch sits across the room with loose threads and stains strewn all over it. I was the first one to arrive and chose a seat in the far back corner. The one with the least amount of light to illuminate my presence. People are now scattered all over the room, some alone and others with a friend. People deposit ashes into ashtrays dispersed across the room. I wish they weren’t smoking at all. The smell is rancid and reminds me of my parents. Do they still allow smoking in public areas? I guess this place is a little different and probably follows a unique set of rules.

  Staring at me from across the room is a poster that says Alcoholics Anonymous in bold with the twelve-step program listed underneath it. This is the first meeting I've ever attended. I decided it was time to get my life in order, for the second time, after losing Grayson.

  Once the meeting starts, everyone takes a turn sharing their stories from the low points in their lives. They say talking and hearing other people’s struggles helps you with your own demons. I’m not sure how listening to a guy drone on about his drinking days and getting laid is supposed to help me, but what do I know.

  The moment I walked in the door, I felt uncomfortable. Not because I felt like I was being judged or I didn’t belong, I felt uncomfortable because I knew I belonged here. I had gotten to a point in my life where I belonged in a place with a bunch of other people talking about their addiction because I am an…an addict. At least I can say I have completed the first step, admitting I have a problem. Sort of. Thinking it counts, right? Because if that’s the case, I’ve mastered the first step as it’s the first thought that crosses my mind every morning. Fixing the problem is a whole different story.

  “Hey, my name is Ryan,” a deep voice says.

  My head snaps up to look across the room toward the voice. I can’t make out his face, but I can see his dark brown hair hanging across his forehead.

  “Hi, Ryan. Glad, you’re here,” the room greets him in unison.

  Apparently whenever someone speaks, they introduce themselves, and the whole group says they're glad the person's here. I’m not sure what that’s about, but maybe I’ll find out later.

  “I used to come to these meetings with my dad, but he refuses to come anymore. He doesn’t believe the program works, but I have to disagree. I saw a change in him when he came to these meetings. He didn’t drink for seven months, and during that time, he was the dad I remembered from when I was a little kid. But, he started drinking again, two months ago, and he’s back where he started. Being a drunk, belligerent, and unhappy. I know these meetings are for people who have a drinking problem, but if it’s okay, I want to share my own story.”

  He pauses waiting for anyone to interject. After feeling comfortable that no one objects to his request, he continues, “I saw firsthand the effects drinking had on my dad. Not even just drinking, but drugs, too. It began when I was six. He started missing my baseball games and slowly stopped coming all together. I caught rides with my friends and lied to their parents about where my dad was. I always told them he was working late. To this day, I’m not entirely sure they ever believed me.

  “The older I got, the more my dad’s condition worsened. When I was sixteen, I came home from school and found him on the bathroom floor. I thought he was passed out, but when I examined him closer, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I rushed to his side and attempted to find his pulse, but I couldn’t. I called 911 and started CPR. An ambulance showed up ten minutes later. They rushed him to the hospital, and I sat in the waiting room for three hours. When the doctor finally emerged, he told me my dad was lucky to be alive. He said if I hadn’t found him when I did, he'd be dead. They had to pump his stomach multiple times from all the pills and alcohol he had consumed.

  “The doctor asked me if my mom was home and could watch over me while my dad was in the hospital. The answer was no because my mother wasn’t around anymore and hadn’t been for a while. I told him yes anyway, so I wouldn’t be forced into the foster care system since I had no other family. His leery eyes told me he didn't buy it, but he didn't press the issue. After three days in the hospital, my dad was released. He promised to turn his life around, but he never did. The closest he came to getting clean was when he started coming here.” He inhales a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.

  “The point is, I know everyone has their own struggles, but I truly believe in this program. If you really want to change, you can, and the people here will help you through the hard times because there will be hard times. But in the end, all the work will be worth it, and your family will be grateful to have you back to the person they once knew. I believe in all of you. Thank you for giving my dad back to me even if it was for a short time.”

  The room is silent for a moment before everyone says, “Thanks for sharing.”

  The next person begins to speak, but I don’t hear her. I’m stuck staring at the dark outline of a guy who shared his story that has struck me in awe. Eight people shared their past with the group, and all of their stories were tragic. They talked about the darkest times in their lives, but none of them stuck with me like his. It’s not because he suffered through a childhood with a drunk father like I did. It clicked with me becaus
e he says the program works. As stupid as that might sound, it makes me believe in it more. When I hear from an alcoholic that the program works, half of me believes it does and the other half thinks the person is lying either to the group or to themselves. But for some reason, hearing those words come out of the mouth of a guy who has lived with an alcoholic and has seen an improvement gives me hope. I can believe in this because I've heard two sides of the story. One from an addict and the other from a person who loves an addict.

  When it’s my turn to speak, I muster up enough courage to say, “Hi, I’m Avery. I’m an alcoholic, and this is my first day here. Thanks for having me.”

  “Thanks for coming, Avery,” they chant as one.

  Although it may not seem like a big deal, it's the first time I’ve admitted I'm an alcoholic out loud. I’ve said it in my head a million times, but I’ve never been able to voice the words. The dark outline of a guy I’ve never met gave me the courage to divulge that I'm an addict out loud after months of trying on my own.

  A woman in her late fifties stands to address the room, “At the end of the meeting, we hand out chips. These chips represent the years you have made it without succumbing to your addiction. Each and every one of you should be proud you have made it this far in your journey.” She leans down to open a silver briefcase to reveal several rows of chips, exactly like poker chips.

  One by one, people who have been clean for a year, two years, and five years step up to collect their chips. They even announce someone who has been clean for thirty years. I pray it gets easier after a couple of years, but judging by the fact that there's someone here who has been clean for thirty years, I highly doubt the desire to fall into your addiction ever goes away.

  “And last but not least, we would like to welcome anyone who is here for the first time tonight. We all know the first day can be hard and the first year even harder, but if you work the steps and lean on your sponsor, you can make it through anything.” Her eyes land on me for a split second. “Anyone who would like to receive a chip for one day of sobriety please come forward. We're honored you took your first step with us. Your story is just beginning.”