I got home from work today, and there was an odd scarf on the floor. No big deal, right?Wrong!
Instantly, without missing a beat, a story unfolded in my mind:
He's using again. He pulled out my scarf to tie off his arm. Why does he always have to use my stuff? Are the drugs better when my stuff is involved? He's been spending all that time with his mom. They're using together again. I can't believe it. I need to go through all his pockets. Why isn't he home right now? Where is he? This is just like that time I found a scarf of mine with a pair of scissors and he'd burned the scissors because he thought he wouldn't get caught if he didn't steal the spoons. I can't believe I've been so blind!And then I looked again. It was just a scarf, on the floor. No blood on the ceiling. No burned spoon. No track marks. No syringe. It was a scarf on the floor among dozens of other objects: dog toys, towels, sheets, yesterday's jeans. Just a scarf.
My husband gave me some money yesterday. He's been doing little labor jobs here and there, and he handed me $40. That's a good thing. He's treating me well, with some slips here and there...but nothing that says he's using. So why is the scarf so menacing?
I'm still working that out.
P.S.
I was sick and tired of MPJ and Mantra having new, cool signatures, so I got one, too.
Scarf by UberHottie
