Part 3 - The Blame Game

The fluorescent lighting flickers and hums overhead as I enter the old classroom. The dilapidated building is located in the bad part of town, the part of town where society pushes the unwanted reminders of the 'real world'. A world outside the realm of Gucci, Versace, and Prada; names and labels as foreign to them as if they are from another planet.

The street is a veritable tableau of the stark realities of life. Addicts haunt every corner and dealers lurk in every shadow. It is a rampant breeding ground for disease, littered with dirty needles that have been passed around countless times without being cleaned and nearly comatose users lying in the alleyways.

Some of the people gathered in the meeting room don't look much better off than the poor souls outside.

I creep inside as discreetly as possible and quickly choose one of the blue plastic chairs in the small circle. Most of the people are still milling about, clutching white polystyrene cups of coffee and gazing warily at each other. A very few are attempting actual conversation, as forced and awkward as it might have been, and fewer still are smiling - save one.

I immediately label him as the 'do-gooder' counsellor type; a young, fresh out of college man that wants to solve the problems of the world with a smile and a pat on the back. I secretly take in his too bright shirt, too trendy jeans, and too styled hair. He is young, blond, and attractive, with a Ken doll smile.

I hate him already.

I turn away from the man who looks so out of place with his glowing enthusiasm in this pit of depression, and glance over my fellow group members.

They are mostly male, although a few women (obviously addicts), stand fidgeting amongst the quiet crowd. Some of the people fit the stereo-typical street person: frail, baggy clothes, un-washed hair, and wide untrusting eyes. While others look to be as normal as myself.

Although, what is normal? I must concede that I am probably the only wizard here, and that could hardly be considered 'normal'.

It suddenly dawns on me that here, AIDS is normal.

The one common bond between us, no matter what your social status. The one thing we all share.

The thought is oddly comforting.

Then the do-gooder opens his mouth.

"Good evening, everyone-"

His voice sounds exactly the way I knew it would - bright and cheerful, with that underlying layer of sympathy that borders on pity. I don't even have to look at him to know that his words are accompanied by an irritating tilt of the head.

"- please take a seat."

I watch the others shuffle over to the circle of chairs and sit down, most of them looking as if they'd rather be anywhere else but here. It makes me wonder if there are that many first-timers like myself, or if they simply have no where else to go.

"My name is Ryan." He smiles. "I graduated from the Glasgow Caledonian University three years ago. I am twenty-seven and I contracted AIDS at the age of twenty-two."

I look up in surprise.

I don't know why, but I never even considered the possibility that this enthusiastic life-embracer would actually have the disease. He looks so young and healthy.

I don't know if that makes me hate him more or less.

"I see some new faces here tonight-"

I quickly lower my eyes to the floor as Ryan's clear blue gaze sweeps around the circle.

"- and I would just like to welcome you and hope you find these sessions beneficial. Just think of these meetings as medicinal - absorbing the good energy and forcing out the bad. This is medicine for the soul rather than the physical self."

I swallow a snort with difficulty and glance around the group to see if anyone else finds this guy as ridiculous as I do.

Apparently not.

"I would like to centre tonight's discussion on blame, and how you all feel towards the person you hold responsible for your current situation."

I fold my arms over my chest and sit back, waiting for some one to speak up.

Ryan smiles in encouragement. "How about you?" he says, turning towards the middle-aged man beside him.

"Me?" the poor guy asks anxiously.

Ryan nods and continues to smile.

"Well, er...I guess I feel angry."

"Towards them?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah."

"Was this person your lover? Dealer...?"

I raise a brow at the blunt audacity of Ryan's questioning.

"Er...lover," the man mumbles.

"And did you have unprotected sex?"

I feel a spike of anger in my chest as I repress the urge to slap his Ken-doll face. Was this group-therapy or a morality lesson?

"Yes." Barely audible.

"Did you know that he had AIDS?"

"No, of course not."

"Did he know?"

"Yes...at least, I think so."

"But you're not sure?"

"I don't know, I guess...maybe."

Ryan almost looks pleased. "Thank you for sharing. I bet many of you here are in the same boat as this man. How many of you are still in contact with the person you hold responsible?"

A total of five people raise their hands - three women and two men.

"Why is that?" Ryan asks, looking around.

"How am I supposed to carry on a conversation with the person responsible for cutting my life short?" a man to my left demands loudly.

"The same you would anyone else," Ryan answers calmly. "What you have to understand, and then get past, is that ultimately the blame rests with yourselves. It was your choice to have unsafe sex, it was your choice to inject that contaminated needle into your body. These feelings that you are experiencing, like anger, resentment, regret, they're pointless, and a waste of energy. Face the facts - you have AIDS. Now get over it and start living. Sometimes talking to that person can be cathartic, a release."

He pauses and takes a sip from his bottle of water.

"Now, I'd like to try a group exercise. Going around the circle, I want each of you to say the person's name out loud that you feel is at fault for you having AIDS. First names only, alright? I'll start - Michael."

Moving to the right, names were spoken loud and clear from each and every person.

"Ben," I say as my turn comes. It feels strange to say his name again.

Around it went, faceless names being tossed into the air, hanging over our heads like little personal storm clouds. Some names were literally thrown, spat with anger and bitterness, others sounded hollow and indifferent, nonchalant even.

"Good." Ryan nods when we have finished. "Now, how many of you are one hundred percent sure that the name you just uttered is definitely the one responsible?"

Twelve hands are raised, some rather tentatively.

I begin to raise my arm as well, but suddenly feel uncertain and waver.

"Ah, you see? You'd better make sure you're placing all that blame on the right person. I urge you to call these people, talk to them, but don't accuse them and don't demand an apology. Remember, you must deal with the consequences of your actions..."

I begin to tune him out as I think about Ben for the first time in a long while. It had to have been him. I couldn't be wrong, could I?

If I am, then it had to have been Andrew, and if it was Andrew, then I was already infected when I was with...

Shit. I had to know for sure.

I anxiously await the end of the meeting, not absorbing another word from the walking Ken doll, and continually glance at my watch every few minutes.

I rush home to my empty flat, shove aside the cold greasy cartons of last night's Chinese food, and unearth my old phone book. I flip it to the middle, the pages falling open to the spot automatically from wear, and pick up the phone.

I take a deep breath and with shaking fingers quickly punch in the number.

"Hello?"

I take another breath and close my eyes. "Draco?"