Chapter 9
WET DREAMS
Every night I dream of my wife and i and all the drugs and wild sex in different places and it gets harder and harder to resist these women. And God nobody made me feel like that ever, she the best I ever had
The silence in the house was a living thing, thick and suffocating, pressing down on Twan until he could barely draw a breath. Four years. It felt like a decade already, though the calendar only grudgingly acknowledged the passing of the first year. The steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, a thing they’d bought together on a surprisingly sober weekend trip before the meth had taken permanent residence in their veins, hammered out the moments that separated him from Mandie.
He should have been out. He should have been on the streets, chasing the next high, the next thrill, that sharp, electric jolt of forgetting everything that was grinding him down now. But the sobriety they’d managed before, the ten glorious years, felt like a memory from another man’s life, a ghost he couldn’t quite summon back. Now, trapped between the phantom heat of their shared addiction past and the sterile cold of his imposed virtue, he was adrift.
The nights were the worst. They were trenches dug deep into his subconscious, illuminated by phantom streetlights and the smell of cheap perfume mixed with salt air. Mandie’s scent, that unique blend of sea-salt, sweat, and that vanilla body wash she insisted on, was increasingly being replaced by other, harsher fragrances in his sleep.
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