Sneak Peak of Grief Sucks 

Chapter 1: Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

“My name is Lucy, and I’m an alcoholic.” My voice cracks, echoing off the whitewashed cement walls and the battered brown chairs of the YMCA basement.

It’s hard to talk, let alone breathe, through the thick cloud of grief. I try to swallow, but it resists, leaving a bitter, waxy taste in my mouth.

Phillip, the aging counselor with a receding hairline and a too-wide smile, gives me a double thumbs up.

Who gives a thumbs-up when someone admits to being an alcoholic?

A man in a fedora wheezes, “Fantastic.”

I whip my head toward him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He’s dressed like a 1920s gangster—suit, white-collared shirt, black overcoat. I glance up from his unusual clothes to find he looks more corpse than man. His skin is thin and papery, with gaunt cheeks. His waxy tongue darts out as he licks his lips nervously. But it’s me who feels nervous. Anxiety roils through my stomach when our eyes meet.

They’re red.

“Demi’s new to the country. I think he meant to congratulate you on this milestone. Acknowledging you have a problem is the first step.” Phillip tries to placate me.

“Ah, yes. I meant no offense,” Demi says. This time, there’s a slight accent. It’s distinctly Eastern European, smooth but heavy like each word is laden with a secret.

“Please continue, Lucy. We’re happy you’re here.” Phillip encourages.

I clear my throat and focus on the empty, dinged-up folding chair directly across from me. “It’s been three days since my last drink.”

I want to add: Because I’m not an alcoholic. I just…don’t want to remember. I want to drift. Not caring. Not thinking.

I was already good at numb before my brother, Louie, died.

But my memories don’t care what I want.

I see it all again: Louie losing his grip above me. His scream as he fell. Our fingers just missing.

The sound when he hit the ground.

Blood trickling from his mouth.

Lifeless eyes staring through me.

“Um…after the…” The grief strangles me. I clear my throat, and the backs of my eyes burn. I blink away the sensation and choke out, “I’m good.” I take a step to leave and kick the leg of my folding chair. A loud scrape makes me clench my teeth.

Phillip stands, holding up his palm like I’m a spooked horse. “Please stay. There’s no judgment here.”

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to stay, but how many strikes do I get before I find myself behind bars? The judge went easy on me. First offense, recent trauma. Just six months of AA and a case manager. But I don’t want to know what happens if I mess up again. I’m only thirty. I’m too young to be behind bars. To throw my life completely away. I sink into my chair with a nod.

“Marilyn, why don’t you go next?” Phillip asks the woman next to me.

“Shit, you’re the gal at the concert this weekend, aren’t you?” Marilyn asks, ignoring Phillip and addressing me.

I groan, shaking my head. I don’t want to recap my poor choices. “No—”

She cuts me off, leaning over to get a better look at me. “Hot damn! It is you.” She cackles. “Oh, you remind me of my younger self…“ She trails off. There’s a soft smile on her lips as she reminiscences while I grimace at the comparison. I refuse to believe we are anything alike. “Did you get his number?” She elbows me like we’re pals.

She means my very public, very drunken criminal escapade: I stumbled three blocks from my apartment to the park, shoved through the crowd, and climbed onstage. I smashed the bassist’s guitar. I think he said, “That’s so hot,” right before we started making out. He was the one tossing shards of the bass into the crowd—but who got slapped with drunk and disorderly? Not him.

“Ah…um…he’s not really my type,” I mumble.

Phillip, seeing me sink further into my seat, tries to redirect her.

She gives him an annoyed look before asking, “Can I smoke in here?” She already has a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She’s searching the pockets of her denim miniskirt and fur coat for a light.

Phillip sighs, his face pinches with annoyance. “No, we’ve talked about this. You can’t smoke in here.”

“Asshole,” she mutters under her breath. She pulls the cigarette from her lips. Her red lipstick has stained the filter. She puts on a fake smile before standing. “Names Marilyn and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober…” She pretends to count the days on her fingers before cackling and slapping her hand on her knee. “Hell, I’m not even sober now.”

Phillip presses his lips together in a harsh line, and his nostrils flair as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Marilyn. Would you like to share anything else?”

“Yeah, I have this rash—” She begins pulling up the edge of her skirt.

“I’m not that kind of doctor, Marilyn! Pull your skirt down!” Phillip shrieks, hands flying over his eyes.

I whip my head the other way, shielding my eyes.

I catch Demi—watching me.

“What is your deal?” I hiss.

He lifts his palms. “No deal, no deal.”

Marilyn grumbles about her chaffing rash but returns to her seat.

“Demi, why don’t you bring us home for the night?” Phillip asks although it sounds more like a plea than a question.

“Of course.” He stands. “I’m Dimitrie Andrei—”

“Demi. Let’s just stick with Demi,” Phillip interrupts. There’s an exasperated edge to his words.

“Right. Yes. I’m Demi, and I’m an alcoholic,” he says the word like it’s a joke. His lips even upturn slightly at the corners.

“I’ve been sober for seven days.” His upturned lips break into a full smile. His teeth are yellowed, and his canines are sharp.

“Congratulations,” Phillip says, sitting up a little taller. Pride lights his eyes, and I’m re-evaluating my judgment. Phillip may be overenthusiastic, but it appears he genuinely cares.

“Thank you,” Demi replies with a slight bow. “It was the twenty-eight of September when I found this wonderful program…”

I stifle a groan. Of course he’s long-winded. Because what this group really needs is dramatic monologues.

I pick at my nails, desperate for a distraction and desperate to be anywhere else. As far as first impressions go, this group is dysfunctional, but it’s the only meeting in the city. I sigh in frustration. I wish the past week hadn’t happened.

“…Lucy…” My attention snaps back to Demi. The way he says my name causes something to hum at the base of my skull. I run my hands through my hair, trying to rub away the feeling.

Demi continues, “I’m continually inspired by the recovery of my peers. In just a few short weeks, three have graduated! I can only hope the same for you, Lucy. You—”

Marilyn’s phone shrieks to life, blasting WAP at full volume.

Phillip jumps. “For the love—” he snaps. “Let’s call it a night. I hope to see you all back here on Wednesday.” Phillip rips his coat from the back of the chair before fleeing the room.

Marilyn answers the call. I don’t think she’s even noticed Phillip has left.

“You said ‘in the butt’? That’ll run you eighty.”

“Oh my—” I grab my purse and hurry after Phillip, desperate to escape whatever that was.

“Lucy!” Demi calls after me, his accent dragging out my name. The hum returns and a syrupy warmth spreads through my head. “Wait, please!”

I quicken my pace, ignoring him as I make my way down the dimly lit hall. It smells like stale Chinese food.

“Lucy!” he calls again.

I slam through the double doors.

The darkness sends a bolt of panic through me, and my steps falter. But the cold air burns my lungs, clearing the strange buzzing from my brain. I hurry down the block, but I don’t get far before the doors open with a metallic thud.

“Lucy! You must not have heard me,” Demi says, jogging to catch up with me.

“Nope,” I agree as I continue to walk, hoping my pace will be too quick for this decrepit old fart.

“Wait,” he pleads, touching the sleeve of my sweater.

I stop and stare at his offending pale hand ready to rip the sleeve from his grip, but I can’t. The same hum is back. I try to shake it away, but it’s like my brain has been wrapped in velvet—everything is soft, quiet, and slow.

“What do you want?” I huff. My voice sounds louder in my head like I’m underwater.

“Just a moment of your time.” He lets go of my sleeve and smiles. His canines gleam like warning signs.

“I really need to get going.” I try and fail to move. The fuzzy feeling in my head intensifies, and my feet are lead weights anchoring me to the concrete.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re relaxed,” he says while making swirling gestures with both hands like the Karate Kid.

“What are you doing?” I say, my voice too loud, too shrill.

He repeats, “You’re relaxed,” several times as he continues to swirl his hands.

My eyelids feel heavy. I try to speak, but I can’t. I’m entirely robbed of speech and can only see through the slits where my lids meet.

What the fuck is going on? I want to scream, but I can’t.

My head slumps to my shoulder. Through the slits of my eyes, I see Demi smile. His pointed canines appear longer and sharper than I remember. He closes the distance between us, running his cold thumb along my collarbone. I shiver, and he smiles at my reaction. He hooks his thumb inside my sweatshirt, pulling it down to expose more of my neck.

A garbled cry claws up my throat, but it doesn’t stop him. His face lowers, pressing into the crook of my neck. He breathes in—long and deep—the rush of air scraping past my ears. I can’t move. I can’t escape. A shrill exhale whistles out of me

Then cold, clammy lips touch my skin. Pain bursts, sharp and sudden, flashing red behind my eyes. Something warm trickles down my neck, slow and maddening, like an itch I can’t scratch.

And then the worst part: the slurping.

Wet, greedy slurps, like I’m a giant 7-Eleven slushy.

My pain and panic ricochet inside my head, rattling me apart until my scream finally breaks free.

Demi jerks in surprise, but he doesn’t let go.

I have to rip myself away.

“No, no, no.” Demi panics, trying to grab me.

I reel backward, bumping into the rough brick facade of the YMCA. I tear at my purse, searching for pepper spray while not taking my eyes off him.

“Please, I promise I won’t hurt you.” He reaches for me again, catching my elbow with his long fingers. I wrench free just as my hand wraps around the pepper spray canister.

“You already did. What the fuck is wrong with you?” I say as I point, twist, and depress the button.

The spray hits him right in the eyes.

He blinks at me, confused, before he registers the pain.

Then he’s howling, sounding more like a wounded animal than a person.

He claws at his eyes as he backs into the street—right into the path of an oncoming ambulance.

“Watch—”

Thud-crash.

I pinch my eyes closed.

The tires squeal as the ambulance hits its brakes. A door opens, followed by a man shouting in disbelief.

I open my eyes to find the paramedic exiting from the driver’s seat and running toward Demi’s slumped body. “Sir, can you hear me?”

If Demi responds, I don’t hear it.

Another paramedic, a woman, jumps out of the back of the ambulance with a gurney. They roll him on and strap him down before standing it up.

I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. I take a few hesitant steps closer.

“I-Is he going to be okay?” I stutter.

“Did you see what happened?” The man asks.

“Uh…yes, I didn’t mean for him too…” I trail off, showing them my pepper spray.

“What happened to your neck?” The woman points to where Demi had….bit me. “Did he do that to you?”

I touch my neck. It’s hot and sticky. When I draw my hand away, crimson blood fills the whirls of my fingertips like a morbid mosaic.

My head swims.

I look up, making eye contact with the concerned paramedic before I crumble to the concrete. I distantly recognize the pain of hitting my knees before everything goes dark.