On the Edge of Wakefulness, Part 3 - Seeking Salvation
Chapter 1
I creep along the edge of a cliff to watch the twisting river beneath me. I'm dripping wet and shivering. Despite the chill, I want to be back inside the current. I miss the ease, the sleep … I miss the sameness and predictability of the river's singular path towards the falls, a path ending in deadly granite. There'd be nothing left of me I know, yet peace dwells in a violent end the way slick moss lies upon watchful river rocks. I teeter on the edge … I dream.
Friday night followed a Thursday which followed a Wednesday which followed a Tuesday … a seemingly endless number of days spent clean, an unfamiliar state of mind.
So far, Todd followed through on his recovery plan which included meeting with Tim, attending narcotic-abuse group sessions, and hardest of all, having family therapy things with Jedediah. The last couple of meetings with Jed had been tense, miserable ones because there was too much to say and Todd had lost the strength to say them.
He did have relief, though. Every afternoon he waited in line to get a dose of syrupy sweet methadone, then walked home along a carefully chosen route from the hospital to the Penthouse because the stroll took up time. He chose not to drive to take up time and to lessen the temptation of swinging down to Sixteenth Street.
Life had changed drastically.
At the moment, he lived as one part of a newly fitted trio - he, Téa and Jedediah - one always on the verge of breaking apart. People said it wasn't a good thing, but all other options felt like failure. Here, there was a sense of hope. So in that high-up place above Llanview, these three co-existed, passing each other in the hallways, on the stairs (like fish, they swim around each other, not touching, easing from room to room doing their individual business, sharing precious little of the truth), each clinging to schedules of intense activity, schedules which meant everything.
Jedediah's schedule was designed to avoid juvenile detention, Téa's assisted her in managing the tension of Todd and Jedediah as well as her own thoughts, and Todd had his to distract him from using, to keep him from peering into the pit of a hell he ached for, to keep him as connected to the other two members of the trio as possible.
Without the schedules, the three might drift away from each other, each might get lost to their rushing, watery weaknesses.
The city on this cold night lay before a sullen Todd who stared at the glow of urban engagement shining through the penthouse windows. He entertained images of families tucked in together, students partying, lovers dancing in noisy clubs, newspaper people working on the morning edition. Normality. The dark of the living room felt good though, the cigarette tasted good. He allowed himself to indulge in the intense loneliness. Nursed the dark pit in his belly … encouraged it.
Across the horizon, Todd thought he could make out the streetlamps of Sixteenth Street where an abandoned studio apartment sat empty, un-abused. He thought of Brandy and wondered what she was doing. The thought tempted him to call Viki, tempted him to feast on the scratchiness of Brandy's voice, on its unabashed promise of dope. Caught himself licking his lips unconsciously, a hand drifting to his crotch to grab himself, a wish to reach in behind the buttons and jerk off like some lunatic.
In that instant, he realized he missed heroin hell. He laughed to himself bitterly. Jesus fucking Christ. He didn't miss the pain, the constant aching and sickness and the smashing into reality once the high faded. No, what he missed was a sense of belonging. There on Sixteenth Street lived a mad rightness in the wrong. He was part of something much bigger than just shooting up, than watching the whores do their thing, the pimps keeping them in line, the trash, the fear, the chase of all the different kinds of highs. There, he was a perfectly regular cog in a very uncomplicated machine. There, things made sense.
Unlike here.
Try as he did to fit in at the Penthouse, he was an outsider. Certainly, he loved that Jedediah and Téa worked so well together, that they related to each other with their quirky senses of humor and similar tastes in film and food and emotionalism … he was happy for them.
But at their highest points of connection, there in front of him, when he could practically touch the strings that bound them, he felt most alone.
He did not relate to their ease of living without heroin, to their complete relaxation when they watched TV, to how they did not look at the clock and wonder how many hours since the last time they sucked down a dose of methadone, or how they did not constantly calculate the time since they last got high down to the minute. He did not connect to their grabbing a snack or reading a few pages in a book or chatting with a friend without visibly agonizing over the absence of the needle. He wished he could see a future and not cry over the prospect that he would never use dope again, that he would never again feel the blissful love of God as He wrapped His arms around Todd's very soul.
Nothing made sense in all of that. How did one live like this? He was so… very… alone in his longing for heroin hell.
Taking a puff of the cigarette, he watched the ashes sprinkle orange into the dark and hit his jeans. The burn was easy to imagine. Leaning back, he sucked the smoke in deep, letting it seep out his nose. Closing his eyes, he remembered the pain he'd once been in, not all that long ago. How easy to put the cigarette to delicate skin, to feel the sting, the burn, a way to remind himself he was still alive because at every other moment, he believed himself the walking dead. The insanity was easy to recall, too easy.
Is this being alive, Spirit? Trudging along dignified streets, moving through well-lit rooms, careful not to touch anyone. Don't want to bruise anyone, don't want to get bruised. Am I really alive? Or is it just a mimic of being alive? Why are you so quiet now?
Because you need to hear your own voice.
How is that, oh Great Spirit, oh Great Spirit of Fucking Abandonment?
My Angel, Little One so close to my heart, you dwelled in a dark place, you'd become helpless with a monster nipping at your heels. Then you came upon a little boy as fragile as a sparrow's egg, and you, after so much, you at last forgave that child, forgave him for being too small to defend himself. You finally understood that the damage brought on you was not your fault.
Did I?
Yes, my Child, you did all that. Rejoice in the forgiveness. Listen to your own strength.
He rolled his eyes. Bullshit. He forgave nothing.
The clock read eleven and an old commercial used to say, he didn't know where his children were. Jedediah had gotten a reprieve for the night. Téa allowed him and Summer to spend time together over at Summer's parents' house. Todd had not met Summer yet because Jed consciously, admittedly, kept her away. He wasn't sure what he thought of the whole thing. None of his business, he guessed. They had to be back by midnight.
Starr was with Blair, where exactly he had no idea since he wasn't allowed any kind of contact with her. Blair made sure to wield Todd's drug use to her full advantage. Sam was trying to work some kind of deal, but it was all predicated on Todd's staying clean even above and beyond Blair's cooperation. And that was a problem. Staying clean. He was physically clean at the moment. In his head… he was a fucking mess. He puffed again. Stared at the lit end some more. Resisted putting the thing on his tongue.
Action follows thoughts. THAT was the problem.
Only this morning Todd told Sam point-blank on the phone that he simply couldn't make that kind of guarantee. No, he couldn't promise that he would NOT tear down the elevator and fucking run to Sixteenth Street for a hit. That if it came to it, yeah, you know what, I'd probably suck dick to get it. He said that to Sam who stuttered and got all come on you don't mean that. And he nearly cried in that moment and rasped to him and the fates that it was the fucking truth, Sam, coach, dear old friend.
I'd do anything to get high again.
He grunted as if he'd been stabbed in the stomach. It ripped him up not to see Starr, not to hear her sweet voice, her laugh. What he'd give to be with her. Stopped himself mid-thought.
What he'd give?
He almost laughed. He apparently was NOT willing to make a promise to stay clean. Had to accept that he picked heroin over everything else, over everyone. Puffed absently … watched the smoldering stick in his hand. Do it, do it, taste it. Feel it. He put the lit end into his mouth and closed his lips around it and though he touched nothing, the idea soothed him just a little.
Téa watched television upstairs. He could hear snappy dialogue, the intermittent raised volume of commercials. Taking in another breath of nicotine (the right way), he mentally crossed out days on a calendar. He'd made it this far. Had to keep trudging ahead, one step after the other, one at a time, keep step-stepping,
Come on, one more day … that's the way, just one more … and another. And another.
A star shot through the sky and he followed it quick … gone in a flash. Wished to make it through another day and then worked on trying to absolve himself of his numerous crimes. You're forgiven, he repeated like a mantra. You're forgiven.
In the end, he envisioned himself on the electric chair.
His mind drifted at that and he thought about the feel of killing someone. The fear. The determination. The urgency. How kind of fucking hilarious that the electric chair was not for Phillip's death - on that he felt no guilt. None whatsoever. And that he couldn't talk about. It was a secret. He wished he could though because he couldn't match up the two competing threads of thought: guilt for being abused … none for murder.
Dirt under my fingernails as I slip, as I scrape down the cliff. I see the water below, I feel the spray. I'm so … fucking … close.
"Try hard not to think of the past in any great detail, don't get stuck in the memories … let them go and work on your future," Tim had said. The addiction guy said the same thing.
And what exactly was it that he was recovering from again? Wasn't that what the heroin was all about? Peter was the sickness, the drugs were the cure. Now they're a problem. As Jedediah told him earlier, if only Todd had the guts to kill the addiction, he'd be able to do anything.
You're Superman! You tore that guy up, sent him to hell. You can kick this thing.
He pressed the cigarette into a plate on the floor where the remnants of a sandwich lay. Leaned back and eyed the city once more. Made a muscle with his arm, tightening the biceps… like a kid. Superman. Watched the lights of a barreling train along the far side of the city. Suddenly realized the television had been turned off. He assumed Téa had gone to sleep.
"What are you looking at so intently?"
Her voice poured down the steps like the sweetest curative water, almost baptismal in the way her voice spilled over him. He turned to her, his features softening. She moved closer, sat at the bottom step. Eye level.
"Things … lights … nothing," he said.
"How are you doing? You don't talk much."
He didn't answer, not sure what to say.
She sighed, "I know it's been tough. How long have you been here?"
"Four weeks, two days, ten and a half hours."
The timing was off. That was how long since he last got high, not since he'd shown up at the Penthouse door. He gazed at a silent flashing of red lights … cop cars perhaps headed to take someone down.
"Counting the minutes, huh?"
He shrugged.
Tiredly, she asked, "You seem… upset."
He sighed and stared hard at her. Then turned back to the Llanview night.
"I feel weird," he said, "I feel alone … I'm lonely in this house with my sorta-wife, with a son I want to know so badly but who scares the living shit outta me. I'm scared of him, of you, of everything. I want so many things and yet, I don't want anything other than heroin. I'd be happy to just get in bed, and never get up again. I'd be happy to walk out that front door and go right back to it. I wish I could get on a plane… as the song says… I wish..." He stopped talking, knowing he was about to say that he wished he could die. But something stopped him. He put a hand up to stop Téa from saying a word in response. "Don't answer me, Delgado, I'm just talking."
Téa glanced through the windows at the few stars visible. She'd moved off the stairs. She stood near enough to him to smell the cigarettes. She worried about him. None of what he said surprised her. His urgency did though, his rattling off pretty deep truths did. After some moments, she asked …
"What would you like me to do?"
He shrugged, "Not your problem."
"I'm not saying it is but maybe there's something that will make you feel more comfortable. Nothing wrong with that. You want to see Viki? You want me to help get Blair to cooperate in getting Starr over here? Or maybe see-"
Quick as a flash, he grabbed Téa's wrist, holding it tightly, knowing he shocked her. Her features immediately tensed, her voice dropped and she said, "What are you doing?"
An ache shot upwards inside of him. He knew he should be better behaved. He knew that. This ain't nothin'. Shit could get a lot worse to be honest. Thank god for his restraint.
"Todd," she whispered. The tension was high and she shut her eyes a moment. He squeezed tightly and she twisted in his grip a little. When she looked at him again she saw sadness instead of upset. He tugged until she stood right next to him, staring downwards into his searching eyes.
"I wanna feel you," he said softly, barely audible. "I want to be with you."
"Why? Because Brandy's not around?"
He didn't flinch, didn't react. "No … does there have to be a reason?"
"Yes. With me … and you … there has to be a reason."
"Because I want to be close to you. I want to know you."
"Know …?"
Silence had never been so loud as it was at this very moment, loud to the point of distraction. There was so much that had to be laid out, worked through, dealt with, managed, organized, yelled, screamed, cried … so much to be done … so much healing that needed to be accomplished. He stood up, not letting her wrist go and placed his free hand behind her head, tugging ever so gently, repeating the words in a whisper, "I want to know you."
Emotion filled Téa and, GOD, she wanted to spring from his grasp like a bird, wanted to fly away from him because that heat he gave off, that energy, trapped her, made her lose perspective, logic, common sense. She huffed, caught in his gaze. Jesus she could give in so easily. She could get on her knees and tear open his buttons. She could lay back or get on top and make love with him … to him… to assure him … to soothe him… she could love him. God, it would be so easy.
Except suddenly, the scent of lavender hit her.
That lovely comforting relaxing scent. She groaned beneath her breath, her head down. Lavender. Lavender soap. Soap she kept in her bathroom. And in that, she realized that he'd showered in her bathroom. He'd gone in uninvited, god damn it. His warm lips touched her forehead… she could feel his hand pressing on her lower back now, the barest moan coming from him…
She wrenched herself away from him, "Stop it!"
He let go of her as if she were on fire. "What, what is it?" he asked, impatience tinged with anger in his voice. They both stood there, eyes hard on each other, inches away.
"Has anything really changed? REALLY?"
"Oh god … from when?"
"From before … from … always? I can smell my soap on you. You showered in my bathroom, Todd. You were in my room without asking permission." She breathed in tiredly, glancing away, then not. "You're violating space. You promised you wouldn't. Damn it."
She hoped she was wrong. She hoped he'd get hopping mad and explain that the hospital soap was lavender. Or maybe that the housekeeper had just put the lavender soap in his bathroom. Or that he went and bought the same stuff and she was mad as a hatter for even thinking he'd violate her rules.
But no.
He eyed her and then sat back in the chair in a huff. Stared outside the window and lit up another cigarette. Inhaled slowly and let the smoke out with equal deliberation. "Yeah," he grumbled. "I did exactly that. So what now? You gonna claim 'rape of your soap privacy'? Call my doctors? Kick me out of my own fuckin' house?"
This hurt like hell.
"You want me to?"
He said nothing for some moments, focusing on the smoke snaking upwards. He shook his head, "No."
She plopped back down on the stairs. Watching him. "You promised," she repeated.
"I know I did. I made a lotta promises."
"Why the intrusion then? You knew how important that was to me."
"What do you think?"
She shook her head, shrugged.
He looked at her, his expression saying, really?
Finally she ventured a guess and said in a soft voice, "You wanted to be near me."
"Give the lady a fuckin' prize."
The dark didn't provide enough cover to the hurt both felt. Him for being so isolated, her for losing trust. It seemed insurmountable, unsolvable. Téa though felt more worry than woundedness. He was deteriorating. This was a start of him going back to old habits and that included the streets. And this was something very much out of her control. She reached to him, but pulled back. Watched his cigarette as he inhaled and exhaled.
"I'm sorry we can't be closer," Téa said after some time. "I wish I had that to give you. Maybe it would make this period of time go easier."
"Do you even love me anymore?"
Téa was ready to say the words that always came so easy to her. The words readied themselves to jump out and wrap around Todd's damaged ego, around that shattered heart of his, words eager to act as a bandage against a torn artery. So ready to do the usual.
"I don't know what I feel," Téa answered. "Especially now. You know that intrusion… is more than just an intrusion."
He was quiet, a slight nod as he studied his nails. As he puffed on the cigarette. His eyes stung with surprising tears. God, he wanted the burn of the cigarette. It would break the pain in his heart.
"Todd, you're going through a lot now … so many wounds … for both of us. I find the word, 'love' to be a rather indefinable thing these days. Sort of like attempting to form water into a shape. The definition, the meaning, the usefulness of it, just slips through my fingers. The word, love, slips through, too. I love you in that larger, wanting-you-to-be-safe way."
He chuckled shortly, angrily.
"What?"
"'Love' wasn't complicated for you before. You had no trouble telling me you loved me when I was sick. But now … things are looking better … and you … can't tell me you love me?"
"That's what I mean. Are things better? It's complicated now that you're here. It's a reality I am strangely unprepared for. I find that I am thinking constantly of what's right, what good, what's healthy, what's truthful. I worry about everything around you, so afraid that I'll push you back onto the streets or that something will frighten you or upset you or trigger you. And mostly, I don't want to insult you by tossing around what is perhaps the most important word in the human language. I don't want to do that. I want to mean it. I want it to have meaning to you. I want you to feel it before I ever say it again."
Todd stamped out the cigarette and offered one to Téa but she declined. He tossed the pack on the floor, not taking up another one, but wanting to. A cold wave of emptiness came over him so powerfully that tears threatened to break through again. She was right, there was a lot to be done before he could … before they could …
He felt her nearer to him. She was standing and looking down at him. "You make me weak," she said. He tentatively reached for her hand and looked up at her. Barely touching her fingers.
"I'm sorry I went in your room without asking," he said quietly. "It was a stupid compulsive thing."
He had a loose hold on her fingers. Téa sighed and admittedly felt his sincerity. She then indulged in that weakness of hers and sat carefully on his lap, feeling him adjust his position so she could be more comfortable. He cradled her, like a child. He smiled … ever so slightly. It was a sweet look she wasn't sure she'd ever seen before. Téa shook her head in mild reproach of both herself and him.
"I'm sorry you hurt so much," she offered tenderly. "And I know that by not letting you in my bed… that you might … go elsewhere."
He said nothing. So many promises he'd made, so few he believed in. He wanted to be better though, to do more than fake control over things. He wished so bad for it. He kept the wishes close by in the hope to be better. Except they snapped at him like mad dogs. Promises to stay clean, to stay busy, to be wholesome and reflective, to stay on his medications, to engage in dialog with his loved ones, to engage in healthy sexual activities, to express himself in safe environments, to stay safe, blah blah blah. He didn't trust a single one of them. He didn't know he'd abide by any.
Téa studied his face as he looked downward, clearly thinking on things. She touched his cheek and he looked at her once more.
"Damn you for not denying it," she said. "I think I prefer your days of celibacy."
He dismissed her curse, shrugged slightly, still silent.
"You think about her, don't you?" she then asked.
"Brandy?"
"Yes."
"Yeah. Not in a … complex manner."
"Complex?"
"Love is complex, you said?"
"You love her. Don't deny it."
"Love is hard to define," he snapped, mimicking her earlier speech, an edge of mockery there. "Can we not talk about her?" He said the last words softly, regretfully.
"When can we talk about her?"
He looked terribly sad all of a sudden. "When heroin isn't such a powerful force in my life." His voice cracked and he turned away, shamed it seemed.
She cupped his cheeks and made him look at her. "I'm so sorry."
"You don't know, Téa…"
"I wish I could know more. I don't like you hiding from me. If we're to have any kind of future, I want to know about you. Your heart."
"And what if I …" His eyes watered now and Téa caressed his face, motherly. "What if I break my promises to keep away … what if I fall again?"
"I'll do my best. I'll give what I can … I will try my best to be a strength to you. But …"
He put his fingers to her lips and made a motion with his head. "Don't say more. I get it."
The quiet overtook them again. And Téa rested her head against his shoulder. Her hands were in her lap. He was doing the holding. She heard him softly whispering, "I'm sorry … I'm so sorry." She wasn't sure if he even meant for her to hear him or who he meant it for. She hoped he was offering apologies to himself because after all was said and done, it was he who perhaps was the person he inevitably hurt the most.
"I want to feel you, Téa," he said quietly. "I want to be inside of you. I want that. I only want that with you."
Gazing back at him, she ran a thumb across the soft skin beneath his eyes and smiled slightly. "There was a time when I'd have died for you say that to me."
He raised his brows and sighed. "I know. I wish I could have said it to you. Maybe if I had-"
"That would have meant a whole different history, Todd."
"I suppose."
"I'm proud of you coming here, you know. Things are hard with Jed. Complex. I see you taking your meds right on time, see you reading, looking at the mail from the Sun, talking to Briggs … it's like watching a person venture into a cold lake. Tip toes. You need to be so careful, so … careful."
He swallowed and she saw two tears slip out, and … she kissed them, wrapping her arms around him.
He hugged her back at that, burying his face against her shoulder. They both held each other, grasping onto each other. Being as close as they'd been in a long time. Maybe ever. And some of the pain drifted away, sensations of warmth, of love, taking its place. Todd lifted his head, looking at her. Touched her lips with his. A delicate cautious kiss. Téa pulled away gently, dropped her head.
"I love you," he said. "I don't know the definition you're looking for. But I know that I love you. I may not-" He stopped. Chewed his lip a moment. Shook his head. "Téa, I don't know that I feel love in the same way other people do, like deep inside of me, like in a way that would stop me from doing things… or make me do things… but… you mean everything to me. I look for you, all the time. In your room, in mine, in the fucking kitchen, by the window… where is she, I think. You're on my mind always. Even when I was high and drifting in the Sixteenth Street sea, I would think about you. Téa, more than anything, I wish I could live my promises… for you. Even if it never happens, even if I die doing this fucking drug, please, please know…you are still with me."
Téa glanced away … he touched her cheek to get her to look at him. She was shaking.
"I know you're fragile," he said. "I know you're expecting to get hurt again. You talk about it and you try to sound distant, like you're okay, like you'll just move on. I know differently though. I know you're scared as hell of the pain you're gonna feel."
She swallowed a lump in her throat … tried to not become weak at the sound of the truth enmeshed in his voice. And of all the voices in the world, when he shared his truth, it ran through her with the force of a lethal sword.
"I never want to hurt you," he continued, "but I do anyway. It's like waking up in a strange bed, covered with blood, a body next to you. I remember the killing … but not why it happened, don't know how it started … never knew how to stop it." Like she had done, he wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She said nothing, laying her head back onto his shoulder, feeling him caress her hair this time.
"You may not believe it, but I do have a little hope."
"Really?" She said this softly, barely making a sound.
"Yup. I see us," he went on, "together in a country house … big, huge … lots of rooms … a dog … one of those annoying yappy things … that bites."
"You would want a dog that bites," she chuckled sadly.
"What fun is a dog that doesn't?"
She laughed quietly.
"I see a bird, too. Gotta have a bird."
Téa laughed again, the sound muffled because she kept her place right on him. "He won't talk, will he?"
"Téa, what fun is a bird that doesn't talk?"
They both laughed softly and Todd said, "You gotta admit, you sorta miss Moose."
"I don't miss Moose … don't miss him at all."
"Oh you're so heartless."
Téa laughed again, "Tell me more about what you want. More about that country house. It sounds so … nice."
He grew serious, "Did I mention all the rooms?"
"Yes."
"And windows, a lot of windows so we can see outside … from any place, anywhere. And you know what we'll see?"
"Tell me."
"The sun … the moon … a forest-worth a'trees. Snow on a field instead of shoved up in an alley. Snowmen on a hill, a tree with flowers in the middle of winter … a kid even. Maybe ten of 'em …"
"Ten kids? So who's gonna give you the ten, I'm only good for … two."
"That leaves …"
"Eight."
"Right … eight … maybe the neighbors will kick in."
She giggled in spite of herself, actually treasuring the moment of pure silliness. "Neighbors, huh?"
He chuckled with Téa, adding more details to all the neighbors he and Téa would encounter in their new life together. And soon the fantasy slowed down, and the room quieted again, the two in each other's arms. He didn't know why, but tears welled again, the real dream seeming so far away.
"We'd be happy, I think," Téa added softly, touching his chin, smoothing his goatee.
"Yeah, it'd be really peaceful."
"What's 'peace' like for you? How do you see it, what does it feel like?"
"Quiet, smooth … like walking in a stream barefoot in the middle of summer. Not wanting anything other than maybe just regular sort of stuff … a beer and a burger … or … um… sex … just for sex … just to get some love and give some back … for fun, you know? Peace is … simplicity."
He closed his eyes and moved against Téa's warm hand on cheek.
"One day," she promised.
"I'm sorry to be so fucked up."
"Shhhh … and Todd … you're loved. By me. Okay?"
After a moment or two, he then said. "Let me make you feel good … not for me … just you."
"This feels good, THIS does. I don't need sex, an orgasm. I can do that myself."
"I know you think about it though. You think because I was with Brandy, but you and I hadn't …"
"What are you looking for? To feel alive? Is it another high? Or is it control? Because something tells me this isn't about… love."
"None of that … I think … you don't understand … you're putting up with me … and if something happens…"
"What could happen?" He tried to look away and she stopped him, "What could happen, Todd?"
He'd already said it but didn't use the technical terminology and her response had been so distant and by-the-book he wasn't sure she really understood. Found himself whispering the word though because to say it aloud was too painful, too real.
"Relapse. That's what they call it. Falling off the wagon … fucking up."
Téa rubbed her chest, as if she just breathed in shards of glass.
"I want to love you at least one time, Téa. I want to be with you … I want that so bad because each moment that passes feels like a moment gone, an opportunity gone … one step closer to falling off the fuckin' face of the earth."
"Why are you talking like this? Give it time … we have time… you're doing well."
He shook his head at her, a no … or a non-answer.
"Todd—"
"I get scared is all. Just get really scared. You don't know..."
Téa hugged him tightly, desperately, because he was scaring her, and he hugged her back equally as strong … afraid to stop the embrace because … well, all at once, his barely-held together resistance seemed to have disappeared … all this talking, all this sharing … Téa's love … god, while she couldn't say it exactly, he did feel it, it did seem real and true, and it had sort of brought him to his knees.
Because… he'd run if she let go, if he let go of her. One minute alone and he would get up, walk out the door, and run to the powdery Princess of Peace. He'd steal Brandy away from Viki … he'd fuck everything up. He missed the heroin more than he thought possible.
"Don't let go, Delgado."
To be continued...