"John, it's good to see you again. I understand that your captain wants you to continue coming."

"Yeah. I kinda screwed up," Johnny admitted.

"At work?"

"Well, that's why I'm here, but—"

"What?" Driscoll prodded.

Johnny jumped to his feet. "Uh, well, I had a talk with Cap, and he said something that…that scares me."

"What was it?"

The paramedic paced the room, knowing what he wanted to say but finding it so difficult to say the word. "Doc…uh…" He stopped in the farthest corner, physically as far away from Driscoll as he could get. "Doc…was I…uh…raped?"

Driscoll took a deep breath. "Is that what your captain said?"

"Yeah. His sister was raped, and he said that he recognized the same symptoms in me." As he spoke, Johnny pressed even farther into the corner. "Is it true? That I was—that that happened to me?

Driscoll spoke slowly and very deliberately. "John, although the term 'rape' is generally used in conjunction with a male forcing sexual intercourse with a woman, I would agree with your captain that the term does describe what happened to you."

Johnny felt his chest tighten. "I can't believe it. I mean, it's not possible. How…" He ran his hand through his hair. "How could they…"

"John, when a woman is raped, her autonomy is taken from her. She is forced into an act that violates her physically and emotionally. This is exactly what happened to you. Even though it was an action that didn't follow the exact formula for what we think of as a rape, the end result is the same. You were forced to engage in actions that violated you physically and emotionally."

Johnny was shaking his head. "No…I don't believe it. I'm not…" He choked over a sob. "It's not the same. Men don't get…I wasn't…I was just beat up, that's all. Nothing more."

"John, you know that it was more than getting beat up. But it doesn't make you less of a man. You had all control taken from you. Those men had the power to do whatever they wanted to do. And unfortunately they chose a sexual assault. In a way, they chose the most humiliating attack possible. They were trying to take away your manhood. But if you can recognize this, then you can beat it."

Johnny slowly regained his composure as Driscoll spoke. He went back to his chair and sat down.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, John?"

He shrugged. "Yes. No. Whatever." I've gotta get out of here. "Isn't time about up?" he asked, glancing at his watch.

"No, we've got more time."

Johnny sighed. Driscoll remained silent, and John found his thoughts wandering.

Tonight. The pipe. The baggy. At least two beers in the fridge. Sitting on the couch with the pipe in easy reach. Getting high on pot. Not enough beer to get drunk, but the liquor store was just a few blocks out of the way. On the way home he'd stop for some whiskey. The black book. Who was it…Larry? He can get the good stuff…the hard stuff…the real high…

He jumped up, tortured by his own thoughts, very aware of Driscoll's watching. Pacing the small room, he thrust his hands into his pockets in order to keep them still, desperately needing to talk but petrified of what he would say.

"What are you thinking, John?"

"I'm losing my mind, Doc!" he exclaimed. "I keep doing things…" He again stopped, fighting to keep his composure. "I don't know…I can't talk about…I could lose my job."

"Anything you say in here is confidential, John," Driscoll reminded him. "You can tell me anything."

Johnny whirled on him. "Do you want to hear everything? Do you want to hear about how I've been smoking weed every night? Is that bad enough for you? And you should see the whiskey…I just got a bottle and it's gone…I drank it all and I don't even remember how I drank it! I don't remember, Doc! Is that bad enough? But there's more! I know a guy who can get me…" He stopped, fearful of what he was about to say. "I know a guy who can get me heroin," he blurted. "I have his number, and I want to call him…every night I find a reason to not call, but…" His voice broke. "What am I doing to myself, Doc? Why am I doing these things that I know are wrong? It's like…" He struggled to keep talking. "Doc, it's like I'm losing my mind…I feel like I've lost my mind!"

"John, let me make one thing very clear. You have not lost your mind. You are confused right now, and you're acting out, but every reaction you've had is very normal."

Johnny smirked at him. "I'm an LA firefighter and paramedic," he needlessly reminded the counselor. "I'll lose my job if they find out what I've been doing."

"The only thing you've done that could endanger your job is buying and smoking pot, and at this point I'm not going to turn you in. Heroin, on the other hand, is not only illegal but very dangerous, and I would caution you to think very carefully before using it."

"So at what point am I busted?" Johnny asked mirthlessly. "When I show up at the station high? How about a high rise rescue after I've smoked a joint? Would that be enough to cause you to go to my captain?"

Driscoll shook his head. "You can't depend on me to tell you how to behave. You know the standards that you need to follow. Because of your trauma you have relaxed your standards while in the safety of your apartment, but you have shown enough fortitude to remain professional at work. I expect that you will continue to use proper judgment when dealing with the public, but like I said, I can't tell you how to behave at home. That is something that you need to control yourself."

"So why am I here, then?" Johnny replied bitterly. "I mean, my life's falling apart, and you're not helping me."

"I think that I am helping you discover your inner strengths. You have endured a tremendous trauma, and yes, you are having difficulties. The drinking and drugs are attempts you have chosen to deal with the problem. They are not the best ways of coping, but they indicate a desire to beat this problem. What I am going to suggest is that you face the assault head on. Stop trying to forget it. That's why you're drinking. You're pushing the assault away. Once you face it, and I mean completely face it, you'll be able to cope without the alcohol and marijuana."

"What if I don't want to face it?" Johnny's gaze met the psychologist's, and all of the pain that he had endured seemed to pool in his eyes. "What if I just want it all to go away?"

Driscoll's face conveyed a deep sympathy. "It won't go away, John. I'm so sorry that you have to go through this, but it's the only way you'll ever have peace. You've got to face what happened."

John considered Driscoll's words. "Well, then, I guess I'm on the road to hell, because I'm not gonna face it. There's nothing to face."

"John—"

"No." Johnny went to the door. "It's over, Doc."

"I want you to come back on Friday."

"Twice in one week?" Johnny chuckled. "Man, you must really think I'm in bad shape." He left the office.


Roy jerked awake, then reached for the phone. A glance at the clock radio brought a muted curse to his lips.

"Hello?" he said gruffly.

"Roy?" Johnny's voice greeted him. "Uh—can you come over?"

"Now? Johnny, it's three in the morning."

"I know." Roy could hear a quiver in his friend's voice, and he listened more carefully. "I just need you to come over. Please."

"Okay. I'll be over in a couple minutes."

"Please hurry, Roy."

A new possibility occurred to Roy. "Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No, nothing like that. I just need you to come over quickly."

"I'll be right over." Roy hung up the phone and pulled on his clothes. What was going on?


Johnny wandered his apartment, pausing every minute or so to listen intently by the door. He pointedly avoided looking in the direction of his kitchen table.

At last a soft knock at the door announced Roy's arrival. Johnny dashed for the door and let him in.

"Roy. Come in."

The older man stepped in, looking around for some clue for why he had been called over. The apartment was untidy, as usual, with several beer cans littering the coffee table. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the rooms, and the ashtray was filled with butts.

Johnny pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it while Roy waited. He knew that he needed to explain himself, but his courage was beginning to fail him.

"I got here as fast as I could," Roy finally said.

"I appreciate it," John acknowledged, nervously taking a drag on his cigarette.

"So what's going on?"

"Uh…I want you to…" Johnny ran his hand through his hair, then pointed at the kitchen table. "Those things on the table. I want you to throw them away. Please." He backed away from the table as though afraid of what lay on it.

Roy looked at the table, moved closer, then nearly gasped. A filled syringe and a rubber strap lay side by side. Roy swallowed, then turned to face Johnny.

"What's in the syringe?" he asked flatly.

Johnny looked up from the corner into which he had flattened himself. "I—uh—"

"Is it heroin?" Roy broke in.

Johnny nodded.

"Did you use any?"

John found his voice. "No!"

Roy picked up the syringe and strap. "Johnny…why? What are you thinking?"

The dark haired man was shaking his head. "Roy, throw them away! Get rid of them before—"

"Before what? Before you use it?" Roy thrust the items at Johnny. "What is this, Johnny? What's going on with you? Don't you care about your job…your life? How can you do this to yourself?"

"I told you I didn't use it!" Johnny cried.

"Why do you have it in the first place?" Roy shot back. "You know better! You see overdoses all the time. How can you even consider using this stuff?"

Johnny didn't answer. Instead he slid down the wall, his face twisted as he struggled to keep from breaking down.

Roy waited, his chest heaving as he attempted to regain his composure. When he spoke, it was with a heavily controlled voice.

"Johnny, please…please stop and think before you use that stuff. I…I know that you've been through hell, but please think. This stuff will ruin everything you've worked so hard for. Don't throw it all away. Fight it. You're too good to throw everything away."

"Roy…" The single word slipped past a sob. "I don't want to use it. I don't know why I bought it." Johnny wiped his face. "I feel so bad."

Roy placed the syringe and strap in his pocket. "I'm gonna throw these away. And then that'll be the end of it. Okay?"

Johnny looked up at Roy. "I don't know…"

"Johnny, you can't use this stuff."

"I know, but…"

"What?" Roy knelt before John. "What's wrong?"

"I just can't believe that this has happened."

The enormity of the situation caused both men to pause. It was Johnny who finally broke the reverie.

"I'm sorry, Roy. For all of this. I'm sorry I called you out here, and I'm sorry I bought that stuff. I don't know why I'm doing this."

"Well, you can stop right now." Roy patted his pocket. "I'll get rid of this, and you can forget it ever happened. It's over now."

It's not over. "I wish it was over. I don't know…" John pulled himself to his feet and moved to the couch. "Things are happening," he went on in a small voice, "and I don't think that I'm in control anymore. I can't seem to do what I want to do. It's like I don't have any control."

Roy cautiously sat next to him. "Well, you did lose control for a little while. But you're strong. I know you can beat this. And pretty soon you'll look back on this and know that you beat it."

Johnny shrugged. "I don't know anymore, Roy. I mean, if you'd asked me before all of this if I'd be sitting here tonight with—that drug—well, I'd have told you you were crazy."

"You slipped. It's okay, though. You didn't use it, and everything's okay."

You really want to believe that, don't you partner? I can see it in your face. You're scared out of your mind that I'm not going to make it. "Roy, I'm not sure that—that everything's okay."

"Sure it is! You're gonna beat this, Johnny. I'll help you all the way."

Johnny impatiently sprang from the couch. "Roy, you're not listening to me!" he exclaimed, beginning to pace the living room. "I'm not so sure that I can beat this! I don't know myself anymore! Everything's changed, but you don't want to see it!"

Roy also got up. "But I'll help you! I promise—"

"No! You can't promise me! You can't save me! You couldn't save me at the bar and you can't save me now!"

Roy's mouth dropped open, and Johnny felt his gut wrench at the stricken expression on his friend's face. "Roy, I didn't mean that."

But Roy had already turned for the door. "You're right, Johnny," he said, his voice thick. "I didn't save you before, and I'm just hurting you more by trying to help you now. I'm sorry." The door closed before Johnny could say any more.

"Roy…" Johnny started to go to the door, stopped, then stood, his head lowered in abject defeat.


Roy closed the bedroom door as quietly as possible, but he knew immediately that Joanne was awake and waiting for him.

"Well?"

"It was Johnny. He wanted me to sit with him for awhile."

"And…?"

Roy dropped his shirt onto the floor. "And nothing. I sat with him, and here I am."

"Roy, this can't go on. You're driving yourself into exhaustion. You can't run over there in the middle of the night."

"Yes I can," Roy snapped. He took off his pants and sat on the edge of the bed. "I have to," he went on softly.

"Why?"

Roy suddenly realized that he couldn't talk. He struggled to keep his constricted throat quiet, but Joanne knew him too well, and he felt her arms wrap around him.

"It's okay," she whispered in his ear. "I shouldn't have fussed. But you're tearing yourself up over this, and it wasn't your fault."

Roy furiously turned toward her. "Wasn't it?" he hissed. "What did I do to help him? Nothing! I could've used the fire extinguisher, but I didn't. I could've tried harder to get to him, but I didn't! And do you know why? Do you want to know the real reason why I let my best friend get assaulted? Because I was too scared, that's why! I was too scared to help him, and now look at him! Do you know why he called me over tonight? Because he had heroin, and he wanted me to stop him from using it! Do you have any idea what kind of a lowdown son of a bitch that makes me? It's all my fault! I let him down, Joanne! He was counting on me to help him, and I let him down!"

Joanne shook her head. "Roy, it wasn't your fault! Honey, you can't blame yourself for what happened! You could have been assaulted or killed if you'd gone back in there!"

"Yeah, I'm a real hero, saving myself while my partner is nearly killed." Roy wrenched from Joanne's grasp and took several steps away from the bed, from his wife. "I can't stand what I've done to him," he said in a low voice.

Joanne stood up but didn't approach Roy. "You didn't hurt him," she said flatly. "You helped him as soon as you could. And tonight, you didn't make him get heroin. He did that on his own. I am so sorry about what happened to him, but I refuse to allow you to take the blame for it." She slowly moved closer to him. "Don't destroy yourself over this. I think that you were injured just as much as Johnny was, but your injuries are on the inside, and nobody can see them. Nobody except me." She tentatively reached for her husband, clasping his arm with both of her hands. "I can see what this has done to you, and I want you to know that I love you. No matter what harm you think you did, I love you more than anything. Can you accept that?"

Roy looked down at his wife, felt her touch, and then collapsed into her, his shoulders convulsing as he sobbed.


Johnny stepped into his apartment, then closed and locked his door. He had managed to wait nearly an hour after Roy's departure, but the black thoughts gave him no peace, and he had finally given in to them. He had no recollection of the drive, and he barely remembered passing the money into the waiting hands of the dealer. But he vividly recalled the feel of the paper bag. He had taken the bag without looking inside, knowing what nestled inside but not wanting to see it until absolutely necessary.

This time he would make no desperate phone call. This time he would not stop.

He set the bag onto the coffee table, then, lighting a cigarette, sat on the couch and stared at the brown bag.

The thoughts pummeled him. Again and again, making him dizzy with their intensity. The forbidden, the wrong, so tantalizing. He felt high already.

He snubbed out the cigarette and nonchalantly opened the bag. Reaching in without looking, he first pulled out the strap and dropped it on the table. Then the syringe. He stared at it, imagining the sharp prick that he would feel, the sensation of a foreign body invading his vein, creating the venue for his horrid adventure. Finally he pulled out the tiny bottle with the clear liquid.

Heroin. Unless told what it was, or recognized by its surrounding paraphernalia, it appeared to be harmless, like water. He nearly grinned as he thought about it. A harmless liquid, he could tell someone. See? Nothing to it. But as soon as it was drawn up into the syringe, its trappings fell away, and its true nature was revealed. Just like me. No one ever knew how bad I was. What would they say if they could see me now?

He picked up the strap and automatically wrapped it around his upper arm. Stop! Making a fist, he easily brought up a vein. How many times have I done this for a patient? How many times have I helped someone? But I can't help myself. He removed the cap from the needle and stared at the point. How can I do this to myself? Taking a deep breath, he placed the tip of the needle against his skin, then smoothly pushed it into his vein. Why? He released the strap, allowing it to fall to the floor. Stop this! With his thumb, he pushed the plunger. Help me, Roy! He quickly withdrew the needle, then also dropped it to the floor. What have I done? He backed until he felt the couch against his legs, then he fell onto the cushion. What am I gonna do?He waited, petrified, for the drug to take effect, and then suddenly he didn't care anymore…