Author’s Note: This story is intentionally published without an accompanying image.
Henry let the curtain fall back into place, then he snatched it, like the shirt collar of that one teacher that one time when he had had enough, enough for the hundred and forty fourth time.
He pulled that curtain and looked, really looked. It was like that smell the roses shit that counselor talked about, but except different.
He was back at his dad’s house, looking out the window of the bedroom he had looked out of since he was five or six.
He let the curtain fall back again.
He was Henry, but he went by H, which sounded more like ache, if you thought about it.
He couldn’t remember why he went to rehab.
Well, cocaine, too much cocaine, but he couldn’t remember what made him switch from too much cocaine to rehab. He was broke, sure, but…
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