Violet Addiction by Kirsty Dallas Page A

this is what I had hoped and prayed for, yet it hurt so bad. Someone once told me crying was not a sign of weakness, but simply someone who had been strong for far too long. My last remaining fragments of strength had been Cain Everett, and with his loss, I was now vulnerable and weak. Suddenly the death that had unknowingly brushed by my door only days before was welcomed, in fact, I longed for it. For not the first time in my life, I cursed my parents for giving me this pitiful existence. It was easy to point the finger of blame, for in my mind, they created me, they gave their child front row seats to a family production of hopelessness and addiction. They gave birth to my piteous life. Cain was free from drowning in my pathetic existence, free to spread his wings and fly. Meanwhile, I fell into the dismal depths of loneliness and despair. I tumbled into darkness so thick and endless it must surely have been hell. I sank into the long, agonizing battle that was recovery.

 
     

     
    Sometimes you have to fall so you can learn to stand back up. Falling is hard though; it’s scary and it’s painful. Standing back up is somehow worse. For weeks I did nothing more than go through the motions. I accepted the tumultuous feelings that wracked my heart and soul, not having the energy to fight with them—anger, fear, despair. Each sentiment took its turn at destroying me from the inside out, then I slowly, ever so freaking slowly, built myself back up. One small piece at a time, with the help of therapists and other ‘guests’ at the Hope Built Rehabilitation Facility in Las Vegas, I rebuilt myself into something I just might one day be proud of. Not today though, today I was brooding and pissed off. I didn’t understand why, but some days are like that. After many months of rehabilitation and more counseling sessions than one could poke a stick at, I knew better than most that some days were just more difficult than others. Today shouldn’t have been difficult, not here, not now, in this lap of luxury. I shouldn’t have had a damn thing to be brooding over. Atrani was an exotic slice of heaven on the southwestern coast of Italy. A small town of cobblestone alleyways, picturesque gardens, and traditional buildings, nestled against a gorgeous coastline. Atrani was like an antique getaway with the modern luxuries I still demanded. I was no diva, but I liked to be comfortable, and after the months I had spent in a rehabilitation facility with shared accommodations, I wanted the quiet peacefulness of my own room. And it had to be pretty! I had no idea Harry owned a house in Italy, sneaky bastard! But the moment he had walked me out of Hope Built, I had asked him to find me somewhere to vacation; I needed a break. I needed time to recoup. While my body and mind had mostly healed under the watchful eyes of doctors and therapists, my heart was still in pieces. Harry had suggested his vacation house without hesitation. It was a small two bedroom villa with tiled floors and a peaked ceiling. It was modern and glamorous, with an air of romance about it. And it was only a short walk to the beach. As I lolled lazily on a deck chair on that said beach—though I’m sure in Italy they have a much more fanciful name for a deck chair—my eyes settled on the pristine water before me.
    My red bikini showed off my new, fuller figure. I wasn’t a large woman, but during my recovery I had been under the strict guidance of a nutritionist who made it her lifelong goal to see me gain no less than twenty pounds before I left. My breasts were fuller, which I liked, my hips were curvier, and my tummy was no longer sunken in. I guess you could say I had a pot. Some women might take offense to such a body, but I took none. I knew I had been underweight and unhealthy when I entered the Hope Built program; now I was healthy, well, at least my body was anyway. My mind was a work in progress, but it was definitely better. My heart…it was broken.