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The room is dimly lit. A single light bulb in the corner provides a dim glow that barely reaches the corners of the room. The walls are covered in chipping paint. Its spirit smells of cigarette smoke and sweat built up by the lost souls it fills.
The people in the room are sitting listlessly. Their shoulders slumping, eyes heavy, gaze stuck on the floor. They Are shifting uncomfortably in their seats, waiting for the meeting to start, desperately trying to stay alert. Their exhaustion and despair are plain to see, their faces reflecting the struggles they've been facing. No one seemed to have the energy to say anything, and all is silent except the faint hum of the air conditioning.
“Alright everybody, let's begin shall we?”
In steps a tall man with broad shoulders. His voice is raspy and harsh, probably an old smoker if Barty can guess correctly. His gaze also has something to it like the others at the meeting. It kind of spoke to you in a way, and when one would listen it could be as clear as day that that person is as tragic as oneself.
“Welcome once again to an AA-NA combined meeting. I can se that we have a new face with us so welcome to you”
All eyes are suddenly on Barty.
“Thanks” He sounds hesitant, maybe this isn't a good idea.
“Anything you want to share? And remember, this is a safe place with no judgement whatsoever” The man speaks again.
For a moment, Barty says nothing, feeling the weight of all those tired eyes on him. The silence stretches out, thick and oppressive, pressing down on his chest until he can barely breathe. He’s not sure what to say, or if he even wants to say anything at all. He isn’t like these people. They’re broken, yes, but their brokenness is so obvious, so mundane. What he carries inside him is something darker, something twisted, a shadow that even now he can feel curling around his heart, squeezing tighter with every passing second.
But he has to say something. He can’t just sit here in silence. So he swallows hard, forces himself to meet the gaze of the man standing at the front of the room, and says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I… I don’t know if this is the right place for me.”
It’s an honest statement, one that rings with a truth Barty hadn’t expected to admit. He glances around the room again, sees the way the others are looking at him, not with judgement, but with something that feels eerily close to understanding.
The man nods, his expression softening. “It’s alright. A lot of people feel that way when they first come here. You don’t have to share anything if you’re not ready.”
Barty feels a small surge of relief at the man’s words, but it’s quickly swallowed by a deeper, gnawing uncertainty. What was he even doing here? He’d spent his life hiding behind masks, weaving lies so intricate they’d become part of his identity. How could he expect these people to understand him when he barely understood himself?
But then his mind flashes back to that night—the blood, the cold, the way Evan had looked at him right before everything had gone wrong, and the floodgates open.
“I hurt someone,” Barty blurts out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Someone I cared about.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and bitter, and for a moment Barty thinks he might be sick.
But then something shifts inside him, a tiny crack in the armour he’s worn for so long. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep him talking.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he continues, his voice shaking now. “I don’t know if I even can.”
The man at the front of the room nods again, his expression full of a quiet compassion that Barty isn’t sure he deserves.
“That’s why you’re here, right? To figure it out.”
Barty hesitates, then nods slowly. Maybe the man is right. Maybe this is the place where he can start to untangle the mess he’s made of his life. Or maybe it’s just another illusion, another mask to hide behind. But for the first time in a long time, Barty feels like he’s taken a step in the right direction, even if he’s not entirely sure where that direction will lead.
Barty sits there, the weight of his confession still pressing down on him, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s on the verge of coming apart. It’s as if the fragile threads holding him together are fraying, each breath pulling him closer to the edge. He fears that if he doesn’t do something soon, he will disappear into strings, unravelling into nothing more than the sum of his mistakes and the shadows he has embraced for so long. The image haunts him, his life splitting into thin, fragile strands that drift away, leaving behind only an empty shell. But as he looks around the room, at the faces etched with pain yet still clinging to some semblance of hope, he wonders if there is a way to stop it. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a way to tie those strings back together before they slip through his fingers entirely.