RED HANDS + DREAMS DISSOLVED IN FLASHES OF BLUE AND RED P2
Captured by Mitchell Royel in Covina, California, the moment is enhanced by the enthralling voice of Ava Max. With "My Oh My" resonating gently in the background, her powerful and dynamic energy permeates the atmosphere, seamlessly blending melody and memory into an unforgettable experience.
It’s strange, the way life pulls you out of one storm only to toss you headfirst into another, often crueler, tempest with barely a moment to breathe in between. After the incident—after losing every piece of my identity I thought mattered—I was plunged into a whirlwind of so-called recovery. Three rehab centers, three sterile institutions, each one touting the promise of transformation while swallowing me whole, leaving me stranded in an endless loop of despair. They called it healing, but each facility felt more like a punishment, stripping me bare until I was left staring at the unadorned, shivering shell of who I used to be. Every flaw, every failure, every regret reflected back at me in excruciating clarity. There were no safety nets, no comforting distractions—except the drugs. Oh, the drugs. They were both my medicine and my poison, the only thing that muffled the relentless noise in my mind. The needle and the pills—they weren’t just crutches; they were lifelines, ones that tightened their grip until they became part of me. It wasn’t even about the high anymore; it was survival distilled into fleeting moments of numbness, precious seconds of quiet in a storm that never really stopped. But that silence? It demands a cost. A steep one.
And yet, tonight, for some inexplicable reason, something feels different. Everything feels different. I’m in Covina now, dancing in this dimly lit bar that hums with quiet energy. A place I could never have pictured myself in a year ago, when every step I took felt heavy with dread. Somehow, I’ve ended up here—not because I snuck out or cheated the system, but with actual, sanctioned permission. Rehab rules being stretched thin, the grip loosening just enough for me to catch my breath. It’s strange, this freedom, and even stranger that I don’t feel the pull of alcohol. My glass sits empty, untempted. Around me is a group of faces I’ve only known for two weeks, yet they feel closer than people I’ve known for years. It’s funny how sometimes, broken people find each other at just the right time, how bonds can form in the quiet space of mutual acknowledgment, understanding, and raw honesty. These guys have seen parts of me I’ve spent years burying, parts I didn’t want exposed, but instead of recoiling, they stayed. And for the first time, that doesn’t terrify me. Out here, in this imperfect, chaotic world, I feel like I’ve stepped out of a suffocating bubble into something real—messy and overwhelming, but real.
There’s music playing in the background, the kind you feel in your bones rather than process with your ears, and the chatter of voices rises and swells like waves. The laughter is sharp and unapologetic, unrestrained. For too long, I’ve been trapped in silence, in isolation, but here? It’s like waking up, shaking off years of haze. I’m not sure where this part of the story is going; I don’t even know if these people will remain in my life when tomorrow comes. But a few of them? A few of them are different. They’re the kind of people you don’t just forget, the kind of people who linger in your narrative long after chapters close.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m standing. Not metaphorically or symbolically, but actually standing. It’s unsteady and uncertain, my legs weak beneath me, but it’s enough. I used to think survival was the endgame—to claw through each day, holding on by my fingertips. Tonight, though, I’m not just surviving. I’m alive, shaky and unsure but undeniably alive. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
Epilogue:
It’s strange to think I’ll be heading home in a few weeks. After everything—the chaos, the breaking, the rebuilding—home feels like such an abstract concept. What does home even mean anymore? Is it the creaky old house where fractures began, or the space where some of those fractures started to heal? Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s something I have to build from the ground up, piece by jagged piece.
I’ve been texting a few old friends. It’s awkward, uneven, like trying to have a conversation in a language I barely remember. Some of them don’t respond, and I can’t say I blame them. There are bridges I’ve burned so completely that even stepping near their ruins makes my chest tighten. But there are others—people who seem to believe in second chances, or at least aren’t afraid to poke at the ashes. Those are the names I find myself clinging to most.
There’s part of me that’s terrified to leave this halfway life in Covina. Here, I’ve been suspended between worlds, accountable but sheltered, challenged but supported. Going back means facing people and places that remember me differently, facing memories that hit like punches to the gut. It means passing by faces that might not have forgiven me—faces I’m not sure I can forgive either.
But there’s also hope in what’s ahead, however tentative. I’m beginning to believe that there’s something worth going back for. It’s not about picking up where I left off; it’s about starting over and planting seeds in soil I once thought barren. It’s about being okay with shaky steps and messy attempts. There’s no map for this, no clean-cut script. It’s just me, day by biting day, learning to exist in a world I no longer want to escape.
And maybe, someday, I won’t just return to a home.
Maybe, I’ll become one.
-Deck
HOMECOMING
The Call to Adventure - Life shifted violently, pulling me from the familiar into chaos. I didn’t choose this path—it chose me, dragging me out of the darkness I had grown to accept. The call wasn’t a whisper; it was a roar.
Refusal of the Call - Fear gripped me when I saw the road ahead. Every fiber of my being resisted, clinging to the broken pieces of a life I was too scared to abandon.
Meeting the Mentor - Help came in unexpected forms—a counselor’s patient words, the unwavering support of a stranger who saw something in me I couldn’t.
Crossing the Threshold - Taking the first step was the hardest because it meant leaving behind the walls I’d built to protect myself. It meant exposing the wounds I had hidden for so long.
Tests, Allies, and Enemies - The path wasn’t linear. Each day brought trials—the pull of old habits, the questioning stares of people who doubted my change. But alongside the struggles came unexpected allies, those who understood the battles without me needing to say a word.
Entering the Abyss - There were moments I wanted to give up, to collapse back into the void, where pain was familiar, and hope was a distant dream. The abyss wasn’t just darkness; it was facing everything I’d avoided for so long.
The Revelation - The revelation wasn’t instantaneous. It came slowly, like dawn breaking after a long night—a realization that healing wasn’t about perfection but about allowing myself to be imperfect and moving forward anyway.
The Road Back - Returning to the surface wasn’t without its challenges. The world I left behind didn’t wait for me, but it also didn’t push me out. It stood there, messy and raw, waiting for me to rejoin.
Resurrection - I wasn’t the same person anymore. The storms hadn’t just weathered me; they reshaped me. Each scar, each misstep, became a mark of survival—a testament to a life reclaimed.
Return with the Elixir - The elixir wasn’t something tangible—it was hope, fragile yet vibrant. It was the understanding that life may never be perfect, but it could be meaningful.
Initiation - The decision to walk into this new life didn’t come easily. It required a choice—to fight even when the odds seemed impossible, to believe there was something worth living for.
Confronting Shadows - Looking back at the darkest moments, I saw the shadows for what they were—not my enemies, but parts of me that needed acknowledgment and understanding before I could move forward.
Forging Bonds - I wasn’t walking this path alone anymore. The connections formed during the hardest times became lifelines—threads stitching me into something stronger than before.
Overcoming the Temptation - In the face of what once consumed me, I found strength. The pull of the past was no longer as strong as the hope for what lay ahead.
Transformational Moments - It wasn’t one moment but a collection of them—realizing the cracks in my foundation allowed light to shine through, feeling the weight of despair lifting inch by inch.
Strength in Vulnerability - I used to think weakness was something to hide. Now, I see the power in vulnerability—the way it binds souls together in truth and empathy.
Walking the Unknown Path - There’s no map for this. Every step is uncertain, yet they lead to places I could never have imagined.
Finding Balance - Healing is not a linear process. It’s messy and beautiful. It’s falling down and having the courage to stand again, knowing the struggle doesn’t define me.
The Inner Battle - Of all the battles, the one within is the fiercest. Facing my fears, doubts, and pain head-on became my greatest victory.
Guiding Light - There were moments of clarity—when the universe seemed to whisper that it wasn’t giving up on me, even when I had.
Redefining Self - I wasn’t who I was before the storm, and that’s okay. I am someone new, a creation of growth, pain, and resilience.
Moments of Stillness - Sitting in quiet moments became a form of rebellion—pausing to appreciate breathing, existing, and simply being in the now.
The Healing Power of Connection - Relationships once felt impossible, yet here I am, surrounded by those who see me not as broken but as human.
Facing Forward - The past doesn’t define me. While its echoes remain, they shape rather than control, allowing me to look toward the horizon with cautious hope.
Becoming Whole - Maybe the word isn’t “whole” at all. Maybe it’s enough to be in progress, to find beauty even in the unfinished chapters. The story continues.