💾 Archived View for hankprince.smol.pub › 5_st_nemo captured on 2022-07-16 at 13:49:08. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

B2B5

Saint Nemo's Wellness Center was formed in the late 2010's, when the opioid epidemic spreading across America was creating addicts in the tens of thousands. Ronald was lucky that Valvazon, the corporate sponsor of the facility, had decided it was in their best interest to create a charitable drug rehabilitation center. How he'd ended up here instead of a hospital, and why they were curing him without charging so much as a cent, were questions he wouldn't get answers to until much later.

The pain in Ronald's feet was not as intense as it was before. On a scale from one to ten, Ronald's bunions had once been a debilitating eight but now were somewhere between a four or three. He could walk on his feet again. A healthy diet and time away from the noise of urban hell had cause his soul to mend itself slowly. Sometimes, he slowly tried to piece his memories, which were a blur of terrifying and shameful images, together. Staying in cheap motel rooms that reeked of drugs and alcohol, with people of ill repute. Sleeping on porches. Town after town sending people with fake smiles and questionnaires to eventually give him a bus ticket somewhere else. He was reduced to an unwanted extra segment of America. In every town he went by a different name, desperate to forget his proud lineage. To drown it in drink and cloud it with the loose cigarettes that had all kinds of strange substances blended into them.

Sometimes, he found calm and saw beyond that part of his life. His wedding to Nancy. Hilly’s birthdays. It was nice seeing those moments with clear eyes, unclouded by the sweet sentimentality brought upon by expensive stolen alcohol, or by the nightmarish feelings brought on by the headache inducing rubbing alcohol mixed with cough syrup or pulpy orange juice from the food bank. He saw them for what they were: gone, but not forgotten. He never wanted to see them in false vision ever again. Neither heavenly nor hellish, but simply like old, faded photographs in the picture book of his mind. He swore never again to succumb to addiction. This was his second chance at life, and he would not waste it looking back, not like he had in those years of wandering after 9/11, when he sank every moment of his life and every dollar in his bank account into the unrelenting vortex of misery.

Ronald’s father, Ike Freeweeber, had some, but not much, sympathy for him. It was probably Ronald’s mother Mary who was saying, “Don’t be so hard on him!” behind the scenes. Ronald’s memory drifted back to the strange morality play that was his childhood. He remembered watching happy families on the TV and wondering if there was anything like that in the real world. Ike was always reaching for the belt when Ronald misbehaved, and Mary was begging him not to do it. He never did, but the sound of the buckle clinking, and of his mother’s fear was enough to make him straighten up. The threat of the belt was far more powerful than the belt itself; Ronald realized when he grew up that there was no way that his father would ever do him harm. It wasn’t in his nature. But, the mental cruelty he inflicted was something he promised would end with himself.

Ronald was always good and honest to Nancy and Hilly. Never was there a raised voice or a hand raised in their household. Such a contrast with Ronald’s life in his state of wandering, where foul language, threats of violence and thrown objects were commonplace.

All that was just a dark memory now. He had three square meals a day (on Mondays, they served his favorite dessert -- lemon squares) and the chirping of birds instead of the whooshing of cars. There weren't any creatures with four legs or more trying to nibble on him in his sleep.

God had given him a second chance...