A Bottle a Day Keeps the Demons Away
I cannot believe I'm writing this. I have so much work to do and virtually no time to do it but here I am, writing again! Actually, I wrote almost all of this in my Bio class today so I guess it's not as bad as me spending homework time to write...no, I'm just rationalizing. Oh well, here we go. I wanted to get this out before the next episode, it looks really awesomely intense and I can't wait for some Greg angst but here's a little to hold you over. I don't own Flashpoint but I'd really appreciate you're reviews, I think I'm a little rusty.
A bottle a day keeps the demons away.
That used to be his mantra, once upon a time when a bottle would do the trick. But tolerance, well that was a funny thing because it didn't take long for a bottle to transform into two and then two to morph into three. Life blurred and before he knew it, in a drunken haze of time passed and time lost his bottle became a full handle.
A handle a day keeps the demons away.
And the scary thing was that a handle barely helped anymore. The memories, that's what he was trying to escape so desperately; and the faces, the ones he was too late to save, the ones that invaded his waking and sleeping hours. He was looking for an escape but he was only finding a bit of a release. The tension, the emotion, the alcohol helped a bit but he came to live for the drunken blackouts that followed; the only peaceful sleep he could find anymore.
And it was getting so hard to blackout now-a-days.
Sure, his family tried to help. His wife stuck around longer than he would have been able to stand if the roles would have been reversed. Looking back, he wonders if he was trying to drive her away. Maybe it was more noble than that, wanting to protect her form all the things he saw daily...no...no he just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be unbothered. Unburdened. Unattached. He didn't want to see the young child's innocent eyes begging for an explanation he did not have.
Just wanted to protect them from what he had become.
His eyes, that's what did him in. Dean's big, warm brown eyes. Years ago, decades ago, he had the same eyes. That was a time he couldn't remember though. He remembered being happy at some point...didn't he? Or was he just content? Was that enough for a life, contentedness versus happiness? Was there even such a thing as being happy? He didn't know. All he knew was that when he watched his father drink himself to death he swore to himself that he would never follow in his footsteps but...
His eyes.
Dean tiptoes around him now, never sure if he's drunk. There's no such things as a "happy drunk" in his world, he always lays somewhere between angry and depressed. He can see the fear in Dean's eyes during his moments of slightly uninhibited sober clarity. He would never hurt Dean. His father would hurt him but he would never harm his own son. He would punch walls, break chairs, disappear for days on end rotating between bars and cheap motels but if he ever laid a finger on Dean he knew he'd kill himself. He lived the life of a child born to an abusive, drunken father and he would not let his son suffer because of that, not on his darkest days.
He would kill himself if it ever got to that point, if he ever turned into his father.
But Dean had already learned the habits that he'd learned as a child. Walk softly. Watch your cartoons on mute. Don't turn on lights when you come into a room. Don't drink anything that's not in a juice box or that mom doesn't give you. And by following these unspoken rules things would be okay. He could drink away his life and memories and pain and Dean could stay a child for a little longer, he wouldn't need to be the sad result of an alcoholic father, they could protect him from that fate.
Dean would not be him, would not grow up in that pain, he would make sure of it.
But he should have known that he couldn't do both; he couldn't be a drunk for his own pleasures, his own escape, and be a father to Dean at the same time. He should have locked himself in somewhere, he should have seen the trend emerging because the past few days it had happened that way. The hard wood floors were his downfall. He had put so much time and effort into them, insisting that he redo them himself when the house was first bought, when he and his wife still spoke in tones other than shouts and he had his dignity. They were perfectly sanded, perfectly aligned and laminated. Though now that didn't matter, they were also permanently stained with alcohol and vomit...and blood. He had been on night shifts all week, his wife working the days and there was only an hour that he was left alone with Dean. Dean got himself off the school bus, found his favorite juice box in the refrigerator, sat down at the table and started his homework. The six year old practically taking care of himself as he waited for his mother to return home in an hour. Things would have been fine if it wasn't for those hard wood floors, if the bottle hadn't shattered when Greg passed out, if Dean didn't hear the sound and run to check on his father. He didn't even see the large glass shards on the floor as they sliced through his power ranger socks and deep into his small feet. He needed two layers of stitches that day. He was in pain, crying and bleeding in the kitchen when his mother got home from work 45 minutes later, too afraid to wake his father in his drunken state.
The blood stains will never fade.
All through his career people told him that he'd be a great negotiator. It was something in his eyes, they told him, something in his tone of voice, something about his presence and intuition. Granted, they didn't say that anymore but it had always appealed to Greg; talking someone off a ledge seemed far more appealing than finding the body at the bottom. But he can't be a drunk and a screwup and be talking people down. He can't himself be on the ledge, wondering if it was the right thing to do. Though his ledge was looking down the barrel of his gun, it was much quicker that way. A jerk of a finger, a minuscule muscle contraction and it was done. No over-dramatized fall where he'd have a chance to regret it. No chance of a doctor pumping his stomach or the cuts not being deep enough. No pain. But then...he deserved pain. He made his family run away and hide, they abandoned him and he couldn't blame them. No, a chest wound would be better, he'd die a slow, painful death and he no matter how good the mortician was they'd never be able to make him presentable. He wouldn't have to make his son suffer anymore by having an open casket.
It's a permanent solution.
He remembered the basic skills trainings they'd had in the police force. All officers knew how to stall. They could keep someone from jumping off a bridge long enough for the SRU hotshots to get there and save the day. The phrase comforted him until he realized that that wasn't right...that was supposed to talk people down, not build them up.
Permanent solution to a temporary problem.
That was it. That was the whole phrase but was it true? Was his problem really temporary? It seemed like it had been a lifetime and that he'd ruined a lifetime but it was only a few weeks. And it was permanent, no taking this one back...no more laughing or reading, or hugging Dean.
Pick a side.
This was it, he could sense it, he had to pick his side now. Either this would be his life from now on, drunken suicidal thoughts and attempts, or he could turn things around. He was stuck at a cross roads with no one to turn to, he'd pushed all his friends and family away and there was no one left for him to live for. Dean would survive, in fact, maybe this would be best. He goes to the refrigerator, hoping for one more drink before he does it. He turns on the light in the kitchen, possibly the first time in weeks he's used a light switch and sees a brightly colored piece of paper on the table. Though most of him is saying to stay on track and go for the whiskey, something draws him to the paper. It's on a dull red color, black marker traced over the pencil lettering that someone else had to write. The letters show an obvious quiver of an unfamiliar hand but it is legible to a parent's eye. It reminded him of a letter he got yesterday but this time is different.
My hero is my dad. He's like the power rangers, saving the world from bad guys but sometimes he needs a little help too, that's what mommy says. My dad is a superhero.
Tears were in his eyes as he sat at the table, feeling where his son sat as he wrote the words, struggled with them, but held the pen nonetheless. He felt his world shaken as he realized he still held his gun in his hands, he still wanted to drink, but right now the most important thing was getting his son back in his arms and hugging him and loving him like he deserved.
There was potential for things to be salvaged.
So he got sober, and he worked hard. He got himself back to standing at work and he called his wife. She hung up on him the first few times and sent back the letters he tried to mail. She was angry and he understood the sentiment, it would take time for her to forgive him, he just wanted to hold Dean so desperately. He got a promotion, put his life and his skills to use and found his true calling in negotiation. He went to meetings, still, years after he had been sober, but still nothing from his wife. His son was growing older and he knew that he was missing a huge portion of his childhood but he also knew that, in time, things would fall into place. He thought they had when Dean came and visited him at work. He snuck away from his mother, took the initiative to find Greg, and then crushed the hopes he'd been building for ten years.
He didn't see the point of continuing on sober. Trudging that harsh, painful path.
But this time he had support. He had this team, friends, and surrogate family. He had almost slipped but he had five other pairs of arms ready and waiting to catch him.
But then it happened.
Dean came back to him. Dean wanted to stay. Dean wanted to see him and love him and know his father. Maybe his wife...ex-wife...would never fully come around, he couldn't blame her, but he thought he was finally happy. He's not positive, but he thinks this is what happy feels like. It's not perfect, but it's better than anything else he's felt. And he tried to keep one thought in mind. One thing that he could always remember and fall back on. He could compare his life to his darkest moment, gun in hand, ready to end it all, and he could know.
Things can only get better from here.
Not sure I like the ending but I wanted to write and I wanted to get some Greg angst in before tomorrow's episode. Let me know, I'm not sure how I like the structure or the narrative, or really anything. P.S. If you review, it'll motivate me to make more time for writing...hint hint. :) Thanks!