TWO

Three days later, Salem woke up in the bed of his truck, curled up in the fetal position, shivering with cold. He lay there un-moving. Experience had taught him long ago to assess his damage before moving. His mouth tasted coppery, and a quick pass of his tongue along his lips assured him that a vicious punch had rendered them split and swollen. A second swipe into the upper left side divulged a loose molar. After unclenching his hands from his biceps, he flexed them in and out of fists. It hurt, and he hissed at the pain. He may have lost, but his hands had done damage. Reaching up he gently felt around his left eye and discovered that it was nearly swollen shut. The fight had been a bad one, he supposed, finally stretching out his cramping legs and rolling onto his back.

Everything hurt. It was an ache that he was all too familiar with. It was the type of hurt that came with a sound beating. The bruising spanned from head to toe and the back of his skull seemed to not rest quite normally on the truck's cold bed. Salem reached up and felt for the lump. Dried blood had knotted his hair and the gash would according to his finger's probing, need or at least should get stitches. He felt around some more and his trembling, stiff fingers dug a dime sized piece of glass out of the raw wound. After tossing the caramel colored shard away, Elliot sighed; hit from behind with a bottle…he was slipping. Or maybe, and the thought scared him, giving up again. Then the throbbing began, crushing his brain and making him squeeze his eyes shut. Drink, he needed a drink.

The thought of that got him moving. His 4X4, red F-350 was still in the parking lot of the last bar he'd staggered into. Honcho's Pit…not the best choice, he figured, unless you were asking for a beat down. He guessed that after working him over they'd just dumped him into the big truck's bed. The sun was barely up, and the temperature was in the low forties, he was freezing. Resolved, Salem rolled out of the truck and landed heavily on the ground, pea gravel digging into his elbows. For a few minutes, he just sat there leaning back against the rear wheel, sucking in alcohol tainted breaths and trying to get his bearings. Finally, his bladder won out, and he dragged himself up, took a piss against a dying oak tree's base and then patted his pockets for his keys and wallet. Both were there and for that he was grateful.

Ten minutes later, he staggered into a liquor store and bought a fifth of Stoli. The clerk looked at him like he was a wild animal and Elliot supposed that he was. Dark crimson blood clotted his grown out beard and even with his hat on, skewed by the bump on the back of his head, his filthy hair jagging out in spikes was clearly a matted mess. Worse yet, his eyes, well the one that was open, were glazed and as red as his truck. Back in the big vehicle, the battered man opened the Stoli and took a long swig. The burn felt good, and he let his head rock back against the head rest. Two pulls later, he felt a bit fortified, and he pulled out of the parking lot.

Half an hour later, driving back toward home, Elliot realized that he had no real destination. Then after a quick glance at himself in the rear view mirror, he also realized that he needed help. It had been a long time since he'd fallen this far, and the thought of his failure made him feel sick. He had no one though. He was alone again, and the realization hurt, physically hurt, and the pain of that hurt terrified him. He wanted to be warm again. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted, needed Vasily, but he'd ruined that. He'd proven, once again, not to be good enough. His entire life had revolved around being qualified, selling his father's drugs, Basic Training, Sniper and Ranger school and now Vasily had finally figured him out…he was a sexual novice, a newbie, a 'crute, he was not qualified to be loved.

Somewhere, just before entering back into Miami, Salem had a thought. He could go to SSC headquarters. He could clean up there, lay low, sober up and make a plan. He couldn't go home. His apartment, his home, was an empty void and that would just hurt. So work, he would go to work. Work was stable. Work was dependable. He could count on work to distract his mind from all of his painful thoughts and injuries, to punish him for his failings. Twenty minutes later he was in the parking garage doubting his decision. If Murray caught him in this condition she'd kill him. They were all sick of his dysfunction, but he was sick of their judgments. So, he thought bitterly, fuck them. He slammed the truck into park, took another long swig of his Stoli and stumbled out of the vehicle.

Elliot wasn't sure how or why he had ended up in SSC's clinic standing in front of the mental health unit, or how long it had taken for him to stagger there but there he was. Like much of the last three days he had no memory of consciously deciding to go to the clinic. The Stoli and the concussion, he was sure that he had one, must be clouding his judgement. He pushed through the door, and the receptionist looked up and then stood up her face a wash of fear and concern. She rounded the desk and approached him cautiously. Years of working with high strung, aggressive men had taught her to always be wary.

"Can I help you?"

"O…O'Dell, Dr. O'Dell…need to see him. Salem, s' Salem, Elliot Salem?"

"I will tell him that you are here."

Salem grunted, and after a cursory glance and glower around the small waiting room went and leaned back against the peach hued wall in a corner farthest away from anyone. He was so tired.