A/N-I don't quite remember when I wrote this...I think while writing Two Versions of Me...but like I said, I'm not entirely sure...luckily the Garret in my head who loves this has transplanted himself into Eddie Ruiz while I work on a Traffic fic...but I came across this while cleaning up my comp and decided to post it. I don't own Garret, or Crossing Jordan, they belong to NBC and Tailwind. Only thing I own is this idea...
I'm sitting here, my hand picks up the small precise motions with ease. It's been a long time, but I still remember how to do it. How to crush into a fine powder with the flat of the blade and then work the blade across it, grinding it as fine as it will go. I keep chopping though, well after it's a fine crystalline powder, pushing it around on the small piece of glass, every now and then sectioning off a small bit of it, forming it into a line before I push it back in with the rest.
There's part of me that's telling me not to do this, that I've worked too hard to do this to myself. That I've avoided it for thirty years, I've stayed far away from it, I never lost my control in thirty years. But I keep thinking about how the scotch isn't enough any more. How all I want is to forget about the world, forget about my problems in the world, forget about everything.
It's not like anyone is going to know. It's not like anyone is going to notice. It's not like anyone is going to care. Lily's so wrapped up in the aftermath of her mother's death, in finding out that her mother wasn't really her mother, she doesn't have the chance to care about me. Jordan's busy rebounding from Woody. Nigel and Bug never really noticed me enough to care about me.
Which leaves me all alone to wallow in my self-loathing. No one has the chance to care about me. I don't care though, I really don't. I section off another line and look at it, before pushing it back in with the rest; it's not perfect enough. I don't want others to care about me. I just want to be left on my own. If I was left on my own, I would have slowly drunk myself to death and everything would be OK.
I can't get drunk on the job. It doesn't mean I don't though. Part of me wants to get caught pouring a generous measure in my coffee. Part of me wants someone to come over and see me. But most of me just wants me to feel good again. That's all I want.
I don't care that I'm being reckless. I've always been reckless. I hide it though, I act like I'm supposed to and be the voice of reason. It's all a facade though, underneath it all, I just want to give in to pleasure-no matter how dangerous it may be. It's at least giving me something to live for, that thrill of doing something I'm not supposed to. Risking death with every single thing I do. Drinking at work. Sitting here, separating out another line on the small piece of glass.
It's reckless and daring and fun. It feels so good. I can almost taste it already. The bitter taste in the back of my mouth, the sharp sting that makes my eyes water. It's been thirty years and I still remember everything about it. And it makes me want to do it. Part of me, the part of me that wants me to get caught reminds me of the bad things. The puking, the feeling once the buzz started to wear off where all you want to do is curl up in a little ball and die because that great feeling is gone.
I just want to feel good. Feel reckless about doing something for once. I fish a bill out of my wallet and roll it up, it feels both awkward and natural. As if it's supposed to be there, but I don't want it to be. It's not like anyone is going to know about this. I lean down and inhale, waiting the few seconds for it to kick in.
It does and all I can do is lay back against the couch, waiting for the first shock of it in my system to fade enough to section off another line and down that. I can taste the slight bitterness in the back of my mouth, knowing that it's going to increase with time, as the night goes on, but it's not unbearable, it's almost so bitter it's sweet. I kick my feet up on the couch and lean back, letting myself drift off into the soft warm feeling, wrapped up in a blanket of safety where nothing can go wrong. Where no one's going to notice this, but where they're going to love me. It's utter bliss.