Echoes of Angels

The thought caused her vision to grow misty. There was no reason to cry. Today was supposed to be a happy one, part of the new beginning she'd been promising herself. Nevertheless, she could not squelch melancholy feelings hovering at the edges of her heightened emotions. Though she was outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. The slightest incident, such as today's unexpected rain, was guaranteed to send her spiraling into the depths of the depression she had not been able to shake for months.

What a day to start my life over, she mused. It's appropriate, though, as dark outside as I feel inside my own soul.

She let down the curtain she'd been holding aside. As she stepped back, the material slid through her fingers with a whisper. The feel of the cloth against the tips of her fingers caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to rise. She was so acutely aware of her surroundings that every physical sensation was magnified a thousand times past normal levels. Some days, and today was one, it felt as if she did not belong in her own skin. In the silence of the room, even the sound of her breathing seemed too loud.

Parting her lips so she could take in air through her mouth, she tried to minimize the needs of her body, slowing the rise and fall of her chest to a minimal rhythm. Only the beating of her heart disturbed the deathlike silence she was desperate to attain within. She pressed the palms of her hands together, assuming the attitude of serene prayer. She lowered her eyelids, blanketing her green orbs in soothing darkness. She could feel the pulsing of blood through her veins just beneath the surface of her skin. Though her body was still, her mind was racing.

Overwhelming sadness washed over her like the consuming waves of an angry ocean. A moan escaped her lips, but it sounded like a scream to her sensitive ears. Perhaps she was screaming. Screaming, and no one heard. Or cared. Oftentimes, it felt as if she did not belong in this world, living among the people called the human race. Through her twenty-four years of life, she'd always felt different from them, isolated and alone, even in the largest of crowds.

I've never been what others are. I've never been like...them.

Julienne dug herself deeper into the mental refuge she'd created inside her mind. Her therapist had warned her to be aware that intense depression could follow cocaine withdrawal.

Withdrawal. The dictionary defined it as the discontinuation of the use of an addictive substance. A second definition said it also was the physiological and mental readjustment that accompanies such discontinuation. Simply defined, it was the process of denial.

Withdrawal also meant rules. Rules meant structure. Structure meant recovery. Recovery meant continuation. Not an easy battle, for surviving hadn't ended the conflict over her weakened spirit. It would take time to regain a healthy balance in her life. Trod on once too often, the white demon had reared its ugly head to extract its pound of flesh, corrupting her health with its wicked knavery. Six months ago, she'd come close to dying of acute respiratory failure from an overdose, and police had found a gram of cocaine in her purse after her arrival at the emergency room. The seizure had induced ventricular fibrillation-chaotic heart rhythms. She'd suffered heart damage, and another seizure could come at any time. A severe episode could kill her.

Through four months, she'd had to follow a course someone else decided for her. Without the pressure of choice, she'd attempted to rebuild her psyche, wean herself from old self-destructive habits and replace them with self-preserving ones. Old habits died hard. Addictions even harder. Her life had not been pleasant or easy since entering rehab, and though she hadn't wanted to go on living, she'd been forced by society's interventionists to continue.

Julienne reluctantly opened her eyes, leaving the soothing blank void she'd created in her mind. It wasn't wise to retreat so deeply into her psyche. She sometimes feared she would dig herself down so far she would be unable to return.

To bring her focus back to the needs of the coming hours, she began smoothing away the wrinkles she'd caused in the curtain. There, that was better. She wanted everything to be faultless today. Not a thing should be out of place.

Not even my own mind.

She turned anxiously to survey her room. Bed, bureau, desk, a small dorm fridge, and a table with two chairs were arranged to give the room a spaciousness it did not really possess. Textured walls, painted eggshell white, were complimented by inexpensive Ansel Adams reproductions. A low pile carpet of a color that could only be described as "baby shit brown," covered the floors. Though clean, the carpet was dotted with cigarette burns. Throw rugs covered thin spots in high-traffic areas. Nothing was amiss except the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the table.