So full of shit

I need another hit

Tattered and torn

Looseleaf paraded storm

Blinded by the sound of silence

Someone save me, someone take me home

So full of shit

I need another hit

Callous and cold

Murderous aging bones

Blinded by the sound of silence

Cartwheel kings and liquid violence

Service to the hands of shallow

Marching as I rape and rebel

Shift me with the interstate

I won't retreat, I won't delay

I'm carving out the sick within

So I can live, So I can live again

"One Last Lunge Of The Big Time Washed Up Player" – Farewell Continental

Ben hadn't meant to have a breakdown – at least, not tonight.

Lynne had been at work, Julia had some school thing to go to, which left him alone with himself.

He hated being alone with himself. He was the worst person to be with – inside his head was a pit full of darkness and more failure than he ever wanted to think about.

That was him – Ben Solo – Failure Extraordinaire.

Father to the most beautiful little treasure that had ever been born. Scholar. Poet. Brother. Son. Friend.

Disaster waiting to happen. Scum. Filth. Drug Addict. Thief.

Yes – Ben was all of those, and his family made it painfully clear to him every chance they got. Leia had gotten him the job at Best Buy – fixing other fucking people's problems. Grandpa can't log onto his tablet. Little Sara cracked the screen on her phone. Daddy searched for porn one too many times and now his laptop has a virus.

He fixed everyone else's problems – but could he fucking fix his own? No. No, he couldn't.

So, Ben had done what he did best – he went to his dealer, bought enough Percs to get himself higher than he ever had been before, washed down his first six pills with a fifth of Jack, and walked across town to where he worked at one in the morning. He wrote a poem along the way in the little notebook he always had on him – some shit about the moon and it mourning the loss of its lover, the sun – and as he neared the building he stopped, looking at the glass doors with a mix of sadness and bitterness as he closed the notebook, depositing it and the pen he always used in the back pocket of his jeans.

Puffing out his cheeks as he thought, Ben looked around with dark, red rimmed eyes finding just what he needed in a large chunk of concrete perched up against one of the light poles in the parking lot. Picking it up, he bounced it in his hand, testing its weight for a moment as he half turned, eyeing the door once more.

He hated this fucking store. He hated his fucking job. He hated his fucking life.

Failure. Drug Addict. Scum. Unloved. Unwanted.

With an anguished roar, Ben hefted the concrete at the door, watching as it crashed through the glass, shattering it into tiny shards all over the inside of the store.

And as the alarms starting ringing, Ben sat on the sidewalk in front of the store, smoking a joint and laughing his ass off at the whole situation. At least he managed to finish the joint before the cops got there and arrested him.

….

The judge that sentenced him had known him his whole life – that's what happened when your mother was an attorney – you had to schmooze with other lawyers and judges at dinner parties – especially in election years. Ben had always hated it – the fake smiles and laughter, everyone acting as if they had the perfect home and perfect little family.

They were all fucking hypocrites.

Ben knew for a fact that this judge's daughter had flunked out of Columbia in her junior year after getting hooked on heroin. Now she lived in a commune in Arizona and went by the name Rainbow Blue. If he had one thing going for him – at least he had gotten a Master's degree before becoming a degenerate.

In the end, the judge gave him four days in jail, which had already been served since Leia refused to bail him out – she had wanted to teach him a lesson or some shit – a year of probation, a $2,500 fine, and a 30 day stint in Hanna City Recovery and Wellness Center.

Great – rehab. He would have rather gone to jail for the whole month as opposed to going to some shitty rehab, with their twelve-steps and group therapy sessions, but in the end, Ben didn't really have a choice.

His mother had something to hold over his head, of course. Macee.

If he didn't get cleaned up, she would take permanent custody of his daughter, and then Ben would truly be alone.

….

Hanna City Recovery and Wellness Center was a shithole dressed up in a tux, so that it looked presentable at an important function. Of course, his mother would make sure he was sent here – it would never do to have her middle son sent to somewhere that didn't have the best of everything for the degenerates that were within its walls. He hated it the moment his mother had driven through its gates – and he would continue to hate it – it simply would do him no good.

Nothing could help him. Not counselors, not group therapies – most certainly not having to detox for a week before he could even remember his own name again. All he wanted to do was pop some pills in his mouth and write bad poetry again while he watched Macee play with her Barbies in his living room.

Instead, he found himself being escorted to a room with a single bed – because of course Leia Organa's misfit child could never have a roommate – that would simply never do. Ben scoffed as he walked with his jailor to his prison cell, because he could hear Leia's voice in his head. His head hurt like he had an aneurysm, and he was certain that every muscle ached like he had been Manny Pacquiao's punching bag for fifteen or so rounds.

He hated being sober.

His jailor – otherwise called a wellness manager, he had been told, was doing her best to be cheerful, and as they entered the room she threw the curtains open. "I always like having light in my room during the day – don't you, Ben?" Her cheer was met by his scowling silence, his eyes narrowing as he willed her to leave him the fuck alone for five seconds.

"Where's my stuff? Where's the bracelet that I was wearing? Who the fuck took it? My daughter made that for me, and so help me God – I will fucking kill someone if it's lost or damaged…" Ben said, anger simmering in his tone as he looked around the room slowly.

"Your bags are in the closet. We took your bracelet off when you were detoxing, it's standard procedure, Ben. Go ahead and get unpacked. First group session is at 1:30." The woman had dealt with plenty of recovering, grumpy addicts before, because she was clearly not intimidated by him – nor was she shocked by his reaction when he stalked to the closet and practically ripped off the door, turning towards her when he found his bags resting within. "Get the fuck out of my room."

She did.

Ben tore through his bags, finding his most precious possession – an elastic cord with large pony beads in green and pink around it, sliding it on his wrist as he let a smile drift to his lips. He remembered the day Macee had made the bracelets – one for her and a matching one for him. 'Look, Daddy, our favorite colors – pink and green!' It had never left his wrist since the day Macee put it on him, and Ben was incensed that it had been taken off him without his permission. Tucked under the bracelet in his bag was a picture of the two of them. It had been taken at the circus six months ago – Macee had insisted on an elephant ride, and the picture showed her on the giant pachyderm, Ben riding behind her and holding his little girl to his chest – both of them with the biggest, cheesiest grins on their faces. Kissing the picture, Ben turned and tucked it into the corner of the large mirror above the dresser.

He hated this place already. He hated being sober. He hated not being able to see his daughter.

But most of all: Ben Solo hated himself.