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No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man.
No one knows what it’s like to be hated.
No one knows what it’s like to be defeated.
Ten months ago, everything changed. For Frank Langdon, it was the end of everything he had built. Robbie’s words, “You let me down,” he said it with bitterness in his voice. “You let everybody down,” still echoed in Frank’s head. Langdon still remembered the look of disappointment in his friend’s eyes. Though friend was no longer the right word. And it’s all because of his addiction to benzos.
He convinced himself it would never come out. That he’d escape the consequences, his secret will be secure until the end. He couldn’t see how wrong he was. One mistake had cost him too much. He still remembered the moment he returned home. Devastated. No further prospects. The first thing he saw was Abby standing in the middle of the living room, with her phone clutched tightly in her hand. There was fear in her eyes. She looked scared. Nervous. Broken.
“Michael called,” she said with a trembling voice. “He…”
Fuck. Abby knew. She knew he had been stealing pills. She knew about the addiction–the thing he had sworn he could control. The thing that had slowly taken over his life and poisoned everything it touched.
He saw it in the way she looked at him now. Not with anger. Not yet. But with disbelief. With grief. Like she was mourning someone who was still standing right in front of her.
“Honey,” Frank whispered, his voice breaking as he took a step toward her.
The word felt small. And for the first time, he understood that no apology would ever be enough.
“How long?” Abby asked quietly.
The question struck deeper than any accusation. Frank opened his mouth, then closed it again. The lies he had rehearsed for months suddenly tasted bitter. Useless. He couldn’t make them sound convincing anymore.
“Abby, I...”
“How long?” she repeated, her voice cracking now, the first fracture breaking through.
Frank swallowed hard. His chest burned.
“Too long,” he answered. “Longer than I ever meant to.” He looked away.
That was enough. Abby let out a shaky laugh that sounded nothing like laughter. She shook her head slowly, as if she was trying to wake herself up from a bad dream. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong.” She took a step back, putting distance between them, as if he was something fragile. Contagious.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Frank said, finally. His voice cracked. “I swear. I thought I could stop. I thought I had it under control. I thought…”
Abby’s eyes filled with tears, but none of them fell. “You always think that way,” she said. “That you have everything under control. When everything around you is falling apart, ” Abby laughed bitterly.
Silence swallowed the room again.
“Oh, god,” woman muttered. Abby finally put the phone down. Her shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the truth had finally settled in. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” she said. “And I don’t know if I can live with that.”
The words hung between them, heavy and final. Frank slowly took a step back, his legs unsteady. For the first time, the consequences were no longer abstract anymore. They weren’t a distant fear, or a future problem. They were standing right in front of him.
And they had Abby’s face.
Ten months later, it all came back to him like a boomerang.
It was July 3rd, and he was supposed to return to work at the hospital the next day. The thought alone made his chest tighten. He was afraid–not in a vague, distant way, but in a sharp and physical way. Afraid of the looks, the silence, the unspoken judgments. He was allowed to return, but only under strict conditions. They would watch his back. Always. No exceptions. One wrong move and it would all be over. His job, his license, the career he had spent his entire adult life building.
And he wouldn’t want to lose that. Not after losing his family.
Frank sat across from Dr. Gardner, his therapist. The muted light of the office casting soft shadows on the walls. The ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. Every second reminded him that tomorrow would come, whether he was ready or not. His hands rested on his knees, palms down, as if pinning them there might keep them under control.
“You’re holding your breath,” Dr. Gardner observed gently.
He exhaled, slow and shaky. “I didn’t even notice.”
“You often don’t,” she said. “Tell me what tomorrow represents for you. Because you’re going back to the hospital, right?”
"Yeah," Frank nodded slightly. He stared at a spot on the carpet, worn thin by years of patients just like him. “Definitely judgment,” he said. “Exposure. A reminder of who I was.” He swallowed. “And who I might still be.”
Dr. Gardner nodded. “You’re afraid they’ll only see the addiction.”
“They’ll see a liability,” Frank corrected. “Someone who broke the rules. Someone who can’t be trusted.” His jaw tightened. “Someone who can’t be left alone.”
She let the words hang in the air. “And how does that make you feel about yourself?”
Frank flexed his fingers unconsciously. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “A proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Of the worst version of myself.”
The silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable. Dr. Gardner leaned back slightly. “Do you remember how you felt the first week in rehab?”
The question pulled him backward without warning.
***
The room smelled like disinfectant and cheap coffee. A sharp, clinical stench that clung to the back of his throat. Frank remembered sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, the thin mattress sagging under his weight, the springs pressing uncomfortably into his spine. The walls were bare, painted an indifferent shade of beige, as if color itself had been deemed unnecessary here.
He stared at his hands. They didn’t look like his. Red and trembling, veins bulging too sharply beneath the skin. He flexed his fingers, then flexed them again, trying to will them into stillness. They refused to obey. They never did anymore.
He hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. When he closed his eyes, his body jolted awake, with phantom pain and restless heat crawling under his skin. He hadn’t been eating either. Food turned to dust in his mouth, nausea coiled in his stomach like a warning.
Every nerve in his body screamed.
For relief. For silence. For something to make it stop.
You’re not like them, he had told himself that first night. He remembered that certainty of it, how tightly he’d clung to the thought, as if it could anchor him. Sitting there on the bed, shoes still on, jacket folded too neatly beside him. He’d tried to convince himself this was temporary.
You’re a doctor. You’re educated. You know the risks. You’re just here to get things under control. He repeated it like a diagnosis. Like naming the problem might cure it.
On the third day, the illusion was shattered.
Withdrawal had stripped him bare, stripping away the layers of denial until there was nothing left to hide behind. The group room had been too bright, the circle of chairs too exposed. Frank remembered how his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, how sweat gathered at his temples despite the cool air. He could feel his pulse everywhere. In his wrists, his throat, behind his eyes.
One by one, people spoke.
A man across from him–unshaven, eyes bloodshot but steady–cleared his throat. “I’m Simon,” he said, voice calm, almost casual. “I’m an addict.”
No hesitation. No apology. No shame. Simply.
The words hit Frank harder than he expected. He watched Simon as if waiting for something–a crack in his voice, a flicker of embarrassment. But there was none. Just sincerity. Acceptance.
When it was Frank’s turn, the room seemed to close in on all sides.
“I’m Frank,” he said, his voice hoarse. Too quiet. The silence that followed was unbearable. Pairs of eyes stared at him, patient but unyielding. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow and painful. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“I…” The word caught. His throat burned. “I have a problem.”
The sentence felt incomplete, cowardly. He knew it. They knew it.
The counselor didn’t rush to fill the silence. She leans forward slightly, her gaze steady, not unkind, but firm.
“A problem with what?” woman asked.
Frank’s hands were shaking violently now. He curled them into fists, nails biting into his palms, grounding himself in the sting of pain. For a moment, he considered lying. Saying stress. Burnout. Anything that sounded less ugly. But something inside him finally gave way.
“With opioids,” he whispered. “And I’m…” the words got stuck in his throat. “I’m an addict.”
The word echoed in his head long after it had left his mouth. Saying it out loud felt like tearing something open. Like ripping away a bandage that had been hiding rot underneath. His stomach twisted, shame flooding him in a wave.
No one gasped. No one recoiled. Someone nodded.
Later that night, when Langdon was alone in the bathroom, the dam finally broke.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Frank stood hunched over the sink, gripping its edges as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. His reflection stared back at him: pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing his face.
He pressed his forehead against the cold mirror and cried silently. His shoulders shaking, breath coming in broken, uneven pulls. He covered his mouth with his hand to muffle the sound, as if he could still hide.
He hadn’t cried when the house went silent, rooms echoing with absence. He hadn’t cried when he packed his things, or when he realized the kids’ toothbrushes were still lined up by the sink.
But there, in that sterile room, stripped of titles and excuses and control, he finally understood how far he had fallen. And for the first time, he stopped telling himself he was different.
***
“I wanted to leave,” Frank said, his voice pulling back into the present. “Every day. Especially when it hurt.” He looked up at Dr. Gardner. “Especially when it was quiet enough to think,” he added. “When there was nothing to distract me. No work. No noise. Just my own head turning against me.” He let out a slow breath. “That’s when it felt unbearable.”
“But you didn’t,” she said calmly.
“No,” he replied. “Because if I left, I’d lose even the chance to become someone better.”
“And now?” she asked. “Do you feel like that chance still exists?”
Frank hesitated. The question felt heavier than it should have. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Some days I feel strong. Clear. Other days…” Frank shook his head. “Other days the craving comes back out of nowhere. I don’t want to use. But I want the silence. I want my head to stop.”
Dr. Gardner nodded slowly. “Cravings aren’t a failure, Frank. They’re a memory. Your brain reaching for what used to work.”
“That scares me,” he said. “Because the hospital is full of memories. Sounds. Smells. Pressure.”
“And yet,” she said gently, “You agreed to the conditions. You didn’t try to hide.”
He thought about that. “Because hiding is what destroyed my life.”
Therapist smiled faintly.
His shoulders sagged as if the weight he’d been carrying finally shifted. “I miss them,” whispered. “I miss Abby, Tanner and Penny,” he said suddenly. “Every day. I keep thinking that if I prove I’m better, if I stay clean long enough…” His voice broke. “Maybe Abby will see me again as someone worth trusting.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Frank closed his eyes. Various thoughts passed through his head. “Then I’ll stay clean anyway.” he said. “Because if I don’t do this for myself, it won’t last long. And I won’t survive another breakdown.”
Dr. Gardner nodded.
The clock on the wall ticked. Tomorrow was still coming. The hospital. All eyes on him. Risk. But it no longer felt like an execution. More like a trial he might survive.
Frank slowly stood up, sinking into the feeling of the floor beneath his feet, the weight of his body, the reality of the moment. As he reached for the door, Dr. Gardner spoke one last time.
“Remember,” she said, “you’re not walking back into that hospital as the man who stole. You’re walking in as the man who stopped. And survived.”
Frank nodded.
For the first time in ten months, he allowed himself to believe that might be true.