James Frey: A Million Little Pieces

I think about her. I think about the first time I saw her. I was eighteen and at School and I was sitting by myself under the orange and yellow of a fading October tree. I had a book in my hand and I was reading and for some reason I looked up.

45.old.

An Addict is an Addict. It doesn't matter whether the Addict is white, black, yellow or green, rich or poor or somewhere in the middle, the most famous Person on the Planet or the most unknown. It doesn't matter whether the addiction is drugs, alcohol, crime, sex, shopping, food, gambling, television, or the fucking Flinstones. The life of the Addict is always the same. There is no excitement, no glamour, no fun. There are no good times, there is no joy, there is no happiness. There is no future and no escape. There is only an obsession. An all-encompassing, fully enveloping, completely overwhelming obsession. To make light of it, brag about it, or revel in the mock glory of it is not in any way, shape or form related to its truth, and that is all that matters, the truth. That this man is standing in front of me and everyone else in this room lying to us is heresy. The truth is all that matters. This is fucking heresy.

She leaves and I'm alone and I'm surprised to be here and part of me is relieved and part of me is disappointed and part of me is confused and I don't know what I'm going to do. I can either leave or stay. I can either leave or stay? Leaving means going back to addiction and facing either death or Jail. Staying means leaving addiction and facing something that is unknown to me. I'm not sure which scares me more. I get up and I open the door and I see I'm in the Medical Unit. I get in line and I start to go about my day and I remember Joanne's room number. Three twelve.

65. old.

The sickness ends and I sit down on the floor and I lean back against the front of the toilet. Waves of emotion begin streaming through me and I can feel the welling of tears. Everything that I know and that I am and everything that I've done begins flashing in front of my eyes. My past, my present, my future. My friends, my enemies, my friends who became enemies. Where I've lived, where I've been, what I've seen, what I've done. What I've ruined and destroyed.
I start to cry. Tears begin running down my face and quiet sobs escape me. I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know why I'm here and I don't know how things ever got this bad. I try to find answers but they aren't there. I'm too fucked up to have answers. I'm too fucked up for anything. The tears come harder and sobs become louder and I curl up on the cold tile floor and I hug myself. I hug myself and I wail and it's morning and I'm somewhere in Minnesota and I haven't had a drink in five days and I don't know what the fuck is happening to me.

I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin.

(első mondat)

I finish the job and I return the supplies and I go back to my Room and I go to the Bathroom and I get sick. I haven' had a drink in three days and I haven't done coke in five so the sickness isn't as bad as normal, but I'm starting to feel sick in other ways. I close the lid of the toilet and I flush it and I sit down on the toilet seat and I stare at the wall. I wonder what is happening to me.
I stand and begin pacing back and forth across the length of the Bathroom. I cross my arms and begin rubbing my body. I get cold and a chill shoots up my spine. One second I want to cry, one second I want to kill, one second I want to die. I think about running but there's nowhere to run so I pace and I rub my body and I feel cold.
Larry opens the door and tells me it's time for breakfast so I leave and I follow him and Warren and John to the Dining Hall and I get in line and I get some food.