I haven’t memorized a number in years. Staring at the ceiling as if one’ll slowly, like a feather, fall into my hands I dialed the only one I knew.
Dad? I need some help.
After confessing my whereabouts, he came but would not speak. In the car, words were replaced with heavy sighs while I attempted to replay the nights events in my polluted brain.
How did I get there?
…Where are we going?
He pulled into a treatment center, the same one I’d made repetitive false promises about.
“You asked for help. Go, or I will tell your mother.”
This was written in response to: Friday Fictioneers. The objective is to challenge yourself to write a 100 word (or less) story that is influenced by a single photo. To read other submissions written for this photo, or to submit your own: click HERE.