Hex decided to leave me on a bench in front of the park while he went back to Anderly's to get our stuff and his car. I sat gratefully, since I really didn't want to collapse on the sidewalk today. The acetaminophen I had taken earlier was barely cutting the pain and my knees were sore from all the walking and running (like a dumbass). I never run. My urgency in finding Hex had overwritten some of my core programming. I tightly laced my boots up all the way to the top to try and give my ankles some support, but they weren't feeling great either.
The gleaming berry El Camino pulled up, and I rolled my eyes as people chattered and stared. Both Hex and his beloved car were equally ostentatious and demanded attention everywhere they went. I stood and opened the passenger door, trying to sit carefully in a way that wouldn't hurt my hips worse and Hex passed a glance my way as we pulled away from the sidewalk.
"You shouldn't have run after me, stupid." He said, with his own bizarre form of affection.
"Yeah, well. I know it was a bad idea but I don't regret it ...I miss running." I mumbled. He didn't say anything to that, so I just rested my cheek on my hand and stared out the window.
I watched the small shops and old houses of downtown Bradford blur by, steadily being replaced by newer and more modern buildings as we got closer to the city's center. Less trees and classic architecture, and more boxy concrete, steel, and potholes. More people, too. Ugh.
I turned my gaze towards Hex instead, since it was rare to see him doing anything mundane like driving, and rarer still to see him behaving without knowing he was being watched. His left hand was on the leather steering wheel, and his right hand was resting delicately on the gear shift. He knew this car so intimately that he knew exactly when to switch gears just by instinct, perfectly smooth. Meanwhile I couldn't even drive an automatic. Damn him, with his talent and face and brazen attitude.
He spoke suddenly, amused. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You're just so cool it's pissing me off." I muttered.
He grinned and laughed. "Oh come on, you're cool too!"
"I can't do shit anymore, and apparently I shouldn't be trusted with inhabiting a body. What the hell is cool about that?"
He glanced at me like I was being ridiculous, which I absolutely was, but I was hurting and it was making me grumpy.
"You're smart, and you're kind, you care about us even more than you care about yourself. And you never give up. Ever. Even when you're at the bottom, you don't quit."
I was surprised the conversation had gone in this direction. I didn't know what to say.
His smile softened. "You live in your own personal hell every day, but you still manage to carry on. That's the coolest thing I can imagine."
"Fuck." I sniffled and dried my eyes before any tears could escape. "Stop doing that."
He chuckled. "Doing what?"
"Telling me I'm a good person. Making me feel shit. Stop it." I smiled at him even as my eyes were watering. "Asshole."
"Sorry not sorry." He said, smirking, gaze ahead.
When people talked about my 'strength', I became acutely aware of the words they left out. They never said 'suicide' or 'kill yourself', like the words would trigger me. I could almost hear the eggshells crunching under their feet as they carefully spoke to me. It kind of pissed me off. This was one of the reasons depression and suicide were such taboo subjects; because no one wanted to talk openly about them. I'd give Hex a pass, though, since he was dealing with his own problems that related directly to my death.
I had so much to say that I could never tell Hex or Anderly. I know we weren't supposed to keep secrets anymore, but sometimes I had thoughts that were so dark and vile they terrified me. Revealing them would either get me thrown in the psych ward again, or traumatize my friends so badly that they would finally realize how sick I was and abandon me. In that sense, I could understand why mental illness was so hard to talk about, especially by the people who had to suffer with it personally.
To be completely one-hundred percent candid about what was going on in my head would require courage that I just didn't possess. It would mean relenting every bit of power I had over myself, since being openly mentally ill meant outside forces could decide you were dangerous enough to be locked away. I couldn't trust anyone enough to hold my life in their hands like that.
The stigma was based on fear. Fear of losing control, fear of judgement. Fear of doing everything right, but not having anyone actually help anyway. Fear that you were too far gone to be saved, and would live the rest of your life in constant misery and pain-
I was abruptly yanked from my reverie when Hex pulled the flashy car into the parking lot. I'd been so absorbed in the labyrinth of my thoughts that I hadn't even noticed we'd arrived.
"We're here." Said Hex, shutting down the engine.
I rubbed my hands over my face and took a deep breath, trying to center myself in reality. Hex squeezed my shoulder and thankfully didn't comment on my pained expression. He exited the car and walked around to open my door, holding out his hand to me.
"Let's give this a shot, hm?" he said.
I stared at him for a second before taking his hand, allowing him to gently help me extract my sore body out of the car. At this moment in my life I decided that at the very least, I'd be willing to try anything to get better. I owed them that much.
"Sure." I said.
~
The dispensary was in a modern looking building and from the outside it could have been a restaurant or a spa or something. Hex pushed the glass doors open for us and we went inside. I'll admit the place had me feeling several different ways. Nervous, cynical, and in awe at the stylish, contemporary interior. The ceilings were high, with thick wood beams spanning across them. The floor was shiny wood, and the walls were off-white. Hex led us over to the front desk where they took our information and Id's. Of course Hex even looked like a supermodel in his driver's license photo.
After that we went further in, to the main space, which was pretty big and had an airy feel. There were several comfortable seating areas with modern, low sofas arranged around glass coffee tables. Off to the side there was an area that had a long wood counter with a black stone top. It sat along three walls that had rows and rows of lit glass shelves on them, stocked with all sorts of cannabis related products. There were lots of glass orb pendant lights in varying lengths hanging above. It was surprisingly classy.
Hex gave me a sideways look as we headed over to a sofa and sat down. A look that I had learned meant, 'You okay?'
"I'm fine, Mom." I said sarcastically, and he smiled. Was I though? I decided being in constant pain everywhere was 'fine' in my case, so it wasn't technically a lie.
I was a little shocked at the huge variety of people that came to a dispensary. Old people that could be anyone's grandparents, bikers with leather jackets and long beards, businessmen, people in wheelchairs, college kids, and stereotypical stoners. To my relief, no one looked artificial; the crowd was a small one, and everyone was minding their own business.
Hex tapped away at his phone screen with his deep red and perfectly manicured nails, and I flipped through one of the magazines on the coffee table. There were apparently thousands of different products all claiming to treat all sorts of different ailments. Not to mention hundreds of different strains of the plant itself, all with different crazy-sounding names and different levels of compounds. I slapped the magazine back on the table, sighing and overwhelmed. I felt like I had stepped through those doors and into another dimension, or maybe down the rabbit hole. Hex tilted his head a little and gave me the side-eye.
"What is it?"
I crossed my arms. "It's just crazy to me that all this is just normal now, you know? That there's a whole industry for weed products that all say they do everything. It seems too good to be true."
"Well, obviously you have to get your stuff from a reliable source." He said, mindlessly playing on his phone. "And it's not a miracle cure-all. But cannabis has definitely helped a huge amount of people, and it's just getting better and better now that people are freer to experiment and develop new strains and products."
I stared at him. "When did you become a weed connoisseur?" I asked, incredulous. He smirked and his scrolling fingers stilled. He turned to look at me.
"Well," he said, "It's helped me too."
I didn't even get a chance to ask him what the fuck he was talking about, because someone called our names from behind the counter.
~
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