The Treasure Never Sought

Rose sat nervously on a cold, solid, marble bench, figiting with her stockings and the small tear in them that she had only just noticed when the cool stone touched her bare leg. Anxious, and now quite annoyed, she sat, still tugging at this minor imperfection.

Taking in her surroundings for the first time, she noted that the air surrounding her felt heavy, damp, and was a bit chilly, and the only sound she could hear was the slight buzzing of the bright fluorescent lights that lined the long and noticeably empty corridor. Otherwise, there was only deafening silence. It felt eerily quiet, as if this corridor was disconnected from the outside world entirely. To her immediate left was a door. She knew it was the correct door, though, all she could do was wait, and for now, she was okay with waiting. The walls were all white, if you considered dingy, chipping, and likely lead based paint "white." There were no wall hangings or decorations in sight. It was empty and felt almost sterile. To her right, there was only the long corridor that she had just walked, her heels clanking loudly on the outdated tile, and echoing all around her. There was a smaller door that she hadn't noticed when she entered. Though, she suspected it was likely only a broom closet, and then there was the bench on which she sat, spanning almost the entire length of the hall.

"So large", she thought to herself of the monsterous bench.

"Why does it need to be this long?"

"How many people are ever sitting here at the same time?"

"I can't imagine how much this amount of marble would even cost. My countertops were entirely too much, so this.. I can't even begin to imagine. It's ridiculous." she continued rambling to herself.

Still tugging at the now quickly growing hole in her stocking, it suddenly struck her how ridiculous she looked.

"Why did I wear this? A dress? I never wear dresses.. ugh, and stockings too!" Why am i dressed this way just to..."

Her manic thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of the heavy door opening beside of her. Rose looked to her side and saw it, the reason she was there.

"That's it?" She questioned herself silently, "A brown box?"

The man holding this rather plain looking object was a small, mousey man, though young. He was 24 years old, she guessed, and likely an assistant. He was much too young, she determined, however. He turned to her and sheepishly asked,

"Are you Mrs? Ummm.. Are you Rose?"

His voice cracked as if he were a prepubescent teenager rather than a young man, confirming her belief that he was much too young to have been trusted to perform this particular task. She looked around at the obviously empty corridor, as if to say, "I'm the only person here. Of course i am, manchild".

He noted her not-so-subtle gesture and look of disdain, and thus, he did not wait for an audible response. With apologetic eyes that were desperately trying to avoid contact with her own, he extended his arms and attempted to pass off his insignificant looking vessel. Though, he did so as if it were a bomb ready to explode and his only wish was to not be the person left carrying the thing when it's time finally ran out.

"A strange game of 'hot potato'." she mused, silently.

Rose did not accept his explosive gift, however. She was unable. Her arms suddenly felt as if they were no longer controlled by her brain, as if they were nonfunctioning and without purpose. They felt like they were merely weighted decoration that had been sewn onto her body.

The man stared, confused and afraid, like a deer in headlights. He fumbled around a bit before, finally, without manners, and without ever introducing himself, he sat the box down on the oversized marble directly beside of her, nodded silently, and as quickly as he possibly could, the man scurried back through the heavy door of which he came, surely glad that this dreadful interaction was over. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing loudly throughout the hall, saying the goodbyes that the little man had failed to say.

Momentarily distracted by the man's panic and rudeness, she soon remembered what lay only inches away, and quickly she jumped to her feet, as its mere presence beside of her made her body, her entire being, recoil. Her heart began to race. It beat in her chest like a drum and, for a second, she felt she may need to sit, but the box was there, she thought, ironically forgetting how far the marble in front of her spanned.

Next, came the nausea. She was able to quickly cast it away, however. Perhaps her body was too busy with a thousand other emotions and responses to bother with such trivial things as feeling nauseated. Nonetheless, she was grateful that it ceased, as her sole focus was the object in front of her, taking up, perhaps, only one foot of that Godforsaken bench that bothered her so.

She stood there and stared at this.. thing; this paper treasure chest. She undoubtedly treasured it's contents more than any other earthly possession she had ever, or would ever, acquire in her lifetime. Though, it's contents would have no monetary value, or otherwise, to most others.

Rose carefully studied its features and noted an odd dent in the bottom left corner, like it had, at some point, been crushed slightly. There was a small mark, perhaps from a sharpie, on its right side, and it was taped shut with an unnecessary amount of tape. It was an ugly box, she decided, and that angered her.

Continuing to stare for what felt like hours, Rose was almost confused by how alien this object seemed. It were as if she had never laid eyes on a cardboard box in her whole life until this very moment. She studied it suspiciously, as if it were a stranger in a dark alley, her mind doubting its contents.

"Impossible," she mumbled, barely audible, but out loud.

As she slowly outstretched her hand to touch this questionable object, she stopped suddenly, mere inches away. Her mind instantly traveled back in time to what felt like another lifetime. She watched, as the images flooded her mind and shuffled through the most wonderful memories at lightspeed. Decades flew by in seconds, perfect images of a time now so very long ago. Momentarily, she experienced pure bliss and contention, a small smile almost forming on her face. It did not, however.

Her joy was abruptly replaced with an aching pain that was unequatable to any other, and a darkness more bleak than ever imagined. The joy she had felt only milliseconds beforehand suddenly left her thoughts even more quickly than they had arrived. Now, the only image she saw was that of his eyes, and that image would remain.

She recalled how the light danced across them, even then, making them appear to almost twinkle. Wide eyes, a blue more perfect than the ocean as the sun sets behind it, and they were looking right through her.

She thought of these eyes often. Sometimes, she felt as if they were the only thought that she was capable of having anymore. They even seemed to make cameos in her dreams, or perhaps, they were nightmares. These icey blue eyes suddenly sent a chill down her spine and she shivered violently.

Instantly, she was reminded of where she was standing.. and why.

This cold corridor, beside of this small and decidedly ugly box now sitting on this idiotic bench. She was there with purpose.

She leaned down and, with all of the strength her body held, she picked it up. She was instantly confused, however, and somewhat relieved.

"Did he give me an empty box?" She wondered.

Certain she was correct, she quickly tore open the taped top and peered inside, only to freeze, and then instantly regret her decision.

Her blood ran ice cold when she saw its contents, almost as cold as his body felt the morning she entered his bedroom to wake him for work. She had believed he was just running behind, as he often did.

Again, her mind flashed to those beautiful blue eyes, wide open, and looking through her. No, they weren't LOOKING at anything, actually. They were just lifeless and open as she stood in front of them.

She recalled how he had, what seemed to her, a look of shock frozen on his face, and how she thought that he must have realized, if only for a split second, that he was dying. It was a sight she could not unsee, and the nausea returned as she continued gazing at what was left of her son.

His entire body fit inside of a bag, packed inside of a dented cardboard box, barely bigger than he was at birth. A single tear fell from her face and landed on the bag that now contained the entirety of her youngest child.

"He was clean. He was finally clean! He had a whole fucking year!" She screamed to herself as she struggled to understand why he died, syringe still sticking out of his arm.

It was an arm that was finally free of fresh needle marks after a decade.

There had been a time when she even stopped buying him short sleeve shirts because she knew he would never wear them, though, she had believed that time had long passed. After so much pain and anguish, forever fearing the call that she was certain would come, she believed it was finally over. He had won the fight and she could finally breathe. She, at last, could sleep at night without concern for what news the morning may bring. He was one of the lucky ones. Why now, after a fucking year?

This was at least the millionth time that she had asked herself that exact question. Though, like every time before, and surely every time to come, no answer would make itself known. It was nonsensical, painful, and gut wrenchingly permanent.

Rose slowly, and with the care of a mother holding her newborn child, closed her son's new, however temporary, tomb. She then took a very slow, deep, and deliberate breath. Her eyes closed, as if to say a prayer, but there was no prayer spoken, not on this day, nor since the morning she discovered he had overdosed. Seeing her dead child's rigormortised body and lifeless eyes left Rose with very few thoughts of God. Countless prayers came before that morning, but sadly, they were left unanswered and were not, as she had believed, enough to combat the ugliness and emptiness that is the disease of addiction.

Rose opened her eyes and turned around, with thoughts of her child and his gorgeous, glacial blue eyes that very much resembled her own. He was the child who could make anybody smile and the one who, had he been there in that moment, in a form other than ash, he could have made her laugh, even then.

He was, afterall, always the inappropriate child. He was the clown, jokester, and C average student who always seemed to be in detention, but he loved with all his heart. He had the best and biggest laugh she had ever heard, and secretly, had always been her favorite child. Although, she would never admit that out loud. She now wished that she had. He was, to her at least, so much more than an addict.

Deep in thought, Rose walked.

Though, suddenly.. the box she was carrying felt much heavier than it had only a few moments before..

..So much heavier.

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(This story, while fictitious, has an uncomfortable amount of truth behind it. Sadly, I imagine many of you will relate to all or at least parts of this story. Addiction is an ever growing epidemic, and chances are each reader will know someone who has died of an overdose, has a family member or friend who is an addict, or is an addict, recovering or otherwise, themselves. There is hope. Na/AA are both a great start. Reach out. You don't have to do this alone)