Adaptation | [H.S] (SEQUEL)

Chapter 1

I entered my room with a heavy sigh, feeling totally exhausted. I threw my backpack beneath the coatrack and strolled straight to my bed to let my drained body drop down on it.

I fucking hated life.

Not only did Ms. Benningfield scold me for not trying hard enough this morning during therapy, but Elijah, the store manager, threatened to fire me for dropping another load of pastries today. As if I did it on purpose. Because yes, Elijah, my sole reason for existence was to ruin your income and life.

I also kept waking up by these horrific nightmares every night.

Ms. Benningsfield refused to upgrade my dose of Zolpidem to knock me out at night and keep me asleep. Even when I threatened her that I would start doing drugs instead, she didn't budge.

The joke might have been a bit misplaced too, since I was living in a group home for 'recovering and mostly homeless teen drug-addicts' as I called it.

I sighed once more, moving myself from my face-down position into the foetus position on my bed. I knew that I was being salty but I couldn't help it. Ever since I woke up in the hospital four months ago, life hadn't improved a single bit.

I was trying to recover, really. From the start, I did everything I could. I agreed to living in a house for drug addicted teens despite not being addicted to drugs, I agreed to getting therapy, I agreed to being monitored, to being supervised, and to get a job in a bakery that I absolutely despised.

But it didn't get any better. I still didn't remember a single thing from what had happened.

Even Rachel, the investigator from the hospital, had given up. The last time I saw her, about a month ago, she gave me her number and told me to call her if I ever were to remember something.

But I never remembered more than the green eyes and a common name. Thus, no calls were made.

In the meanwhile I was stuck with huge scarring on the inside of my elbow which made it obvious I was a drug-abuser. It attracted stares from every customer, to the point that I was wondering why Elijah would hire someone like me. He probably received money for helping hopeless young-adults.

Not to talk about the fact that besides not remembering that I used drugs, I had to get clean from it too and it was hell. The sweating, the shaking, the pain. It took two weeks in the hospital before it was all flushed out of my system. I never felt as repulsed by anything as I did towards drugs now.

My buzzing phone pulled me from my deep thoughts. I pulled myself into a sitting position, my expression feeling thunderous, and grabbed my backpack to search for the phone. I threw the apron, that was heavily stained from the frosting of the pastries that I had dropped earlier, on the floor in the corner of the small room and retrieved the Iphone five from the inside pocket.

It was old, secondhand, cracked and slow. But it was a phone, nonetheless. I received it from the group-home so they could stay in contact with me when I was out. Although, I wondered if they simply gave it to me to be able to track me in case they thought I was relapsing.

'Dinner's ready' read the text from Daphne, a twenty-four year old girl living on the other side of the group-home. She was the closest to what I would call a friend. She also had an eating disorder and a steady marihuana addiction.

She was nice though, always smiling and outgoing, but never eating. I spent some of my evenings with her if I was still in the mood for socialising after work. That didn't happen often.

It all started when I asked for her piece of bread on the first day in the group-home. I was moody, tired and hungry. She gave it to me happily and we had a good conversation. Nowadays I just try to make sure to never eat her food again. But, spending time with her is fun.