A/N.: Thanks to my Beta ParisAmy and to all those who read this story =)


8. Bad Conscience – It fights for and against both parties of the battle

R.

I try to open my eyes. They're heavier than they used to be. I feel as if I'm wrapped into the obscure veil of fog. Everything feels heavy and limp – nearly numb. The stinging smell of disinfection reaches my nose. Oh no. I now open my eyes completely. I have to blink several times to adjust my eyes to the bright lights hanging above me. Fact. Hospital. Shit. I look around only to realise that they pierced a needle through the vein on my hand. Nice. That's exactly the proof that Kirsten and Mr. Nichole need to declare me as invalid and to make me pending on them. Great. It can't get any worse.

"Mr. Atwood, you're finally awake. How do you feel?" A man asks – clothed in white. A doctor: lying and pretending is useless now.

"Strange." Is all I mutter. I don't like doctors and I don't like hospitals. I feel constantly uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well that's the effect of the medication. Don't worry about that. But what you should worry about…

K.

I'm sitting in the waiting room. I'm not his mother, thus nobody tells me anything. Though, we never gave up our guardianship, but he's nineteen now. We're nobody, but some people who are driven by some kind of strange instinct that let them care about a strange boy. I watch the doctor coming out of his room, I jump up. But why? He won't tell me anything and I doubt that Ryan will talk to me. I need to do something. I walk towards the door. Shall I go? I turn back, only to see my father nodding reassuringly into my direction. I take a deep and calming breath and then knock carefully on the door. I don't want to disturb him. I don't get a response. I turn around. He doesn't want to see anyone. I give up. I look at my father whose face tells me: go in there, now! I slowly open the door and peak inside. He's lying curled together on his side, and his face tells me he's doing some heavy brooding.

"Hey." I say and then sat a foot into the room. He doesn't look up to me, doesn't react.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him when I reach his bed side.

"I'm in a hospital, so properly not that good." He asks me obviously irritated by my question.

"What did the doctor say?" I ask him. I start to lose my patience and my understanding for his behaviour. I start to be fed up with it and I know if he doesn't start to change it, I'll blow my top.

I don't receive a response, not even any kind of physical movement which could tell me that he had actually listened to my question. He's doing his best to ignore me.

"Okay, you don't want to talk to me. I leave you alone then." I say and then leave. What else shall I do? I don't like the idea of not knowing what's wrong with the boy. I don't like the feeling that's creeping up my spine, embracing my heart – making it heavy. I walk out, and the doctor who had been in Ryan's room a few minutes ago, passes by. I take the risk: the risk of getting to hear that I'm nobody and have no right to know how the boy – who once has been my son and still is – is.

"Uh…doctor…ex…excuse me…may I ask you something?" I start. The doctor turns around and looks at me. His face is friendly, not the stern and stressed one.

"Yes Miss…"

"Cohen."

"Okay, Miss Cohen, how can I help you?"

"I know that you probably aren't allowed to tell me anything, but…can you tell me how Ryan really is?" I ask him, my heart pounding up to me throat.

"Unfortunately I'm really not allowed to tell you anything." I won't give up. Not this time. I've given up once: I've given up my job, myself and worst of all I've given up my family, but this won't happen this time.

"But I've been his foster mother…I…should have a right to get to know something." I explain him. I can't believe that I'm nothing but a blank line for those people.

"I'm sorry Miss, but he's over eighteen now, I wouldn't b-"Oh no.

"Listen to me, the boy…is not able of taking care of himself…and there's nobody else taking care of him than us: there are no parents and his brother left. I have to help him and push him through to this, but this boy is stubborn like hell and won't talk to me. So I beg you to tell me what's wrong with my son, so I can help him. I know legally I'm nothing but a spare blank on a form, but emotionally I'm more than that. I'm his mother." I let out all my emotions, hoping that I'm able to convince this man. He looks proving at me. He sighs.

"Well, you're right…this is one of my concerns." He says finally.

"What…? I mean what is your concern?"

"Mr. Atwood can't take care of himself. He doesn't seem to accept the fact that he's seriously sick and doesn't seem to care about that." I knew it.

"How did you come to this conclusion?"

"Mr. Atwood was supposed to stay in hospital for at least a week because of a chest infection. He left the hospital after one day. Now he's back again and in my opinion he doesn't seem to be too worried about that." I can only nod about that. I don't know what to say, but what I know for sure is that it's going to be a long and rough time to make him accept his illness. I should have seen this problem coming.

"But…there's another problem we're concerned with." He says and I'm immediately scared. His face tells me that this is nothing good. There's something very serious coming up to me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The doctor in Boston…chose a wrong treatment…or let me express it differently: he chose a -for this case - not proper treatment." My jaw drops. I can't breathe. I can't cope with this. He can't cope with this.

"But…how can they choose the wrong treatment?" I ask him. I can't believe that someone who has such a responsibility can make such a huge mistake.

"I can't tell you. I only know that your son wasn't treated properly for seven months and the consequences might be serious and added to that the fact that…he didn't…take the medication that he was prescribed …I'm not sure where this is going to end up." The doctor says and I feel a knot in my guts. I can't believe that. Ryan used to be the most responsible person in the world. He had taken care of a whole family, including an alcoholic mother and an overtaxed father. I can't believe that he wasn't able to take care of himself. No, he's able of that. He just doesn't give a shit about himself. That's it. He doesn't care what's happening to him, because he doesn't want to burden someone, not even his brother – his own family. Rage is boiling in the pit of my stomach. He's an intelligent boy. He's supposed to be able to take care of himself.

"I…I can't…I don't know what to say."

"I can't help you there, but if you're really as concerned - as you seem to be - you have to make him accept his illness and have to take care of that he's following the treatment, otherwise I don't see any chance for him to win this fight." Clear words.

"I'll do my best. Thank you doctor." I reply. I have to do something. I storm towards his room and enter it.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" I scream at him. I don't care about my language. I have to adopt his harsh attitude, because there's no other way to make him understand what this is about: that this is about his life.

"What are you talking about? And what the fuck are you thinking when you scream at me like this?" He looks confused. That's good, because it means I caught him off guard.

"You should've been in hospital. Instead you're walking around in pouring rain and attending your lectures." I explain him what I heard few seconds ago. There's no reason for me staying calm. He has behaved like a rude little brat towards me, so I don't have any obligation to be nice to him anymore. I can understand that he's hurt, but he doesn't talk to me and that's the worst thing. Blaming you and don't telling you what for, is something I'm not going to tolerate.

R.

"What…why? Why did you talk to the doctor? You don't have any right to!" I scream back at her. I'm upset. This was supposed to remain private. I'm not her foster son anymore. I'm just the boy who swept up her vomit, nothing - nobody else.

"Because you're a danger to yourself and unable to take care of yourself. That's why I talked to the doctor." She throws into my face and I'm not sure whether I should take this as real concern.

"Now you start to even humiliate me? Isn't it enough that your father already forced me to come with you? Don't I have any say or free will in this?" I bark into her face. It's not like anyone had cared since I've gone. Now? They're only afraid of the bad conscience they might suffer from when I'm finally dead. They don't care about me, but only themselves.

"Stop it! I know that things were difficult and that you probably had some very good reason for leaving, but you at least owe an explanation to me!"

"I owe you nothing!"

"No? Do you know what it felt like when I came home, thinking of being able to finally embracing my family, and finding out that one member is missing? Do you know how awful it is to feel that you're the reason for one of your sons leaving you? Do you know how hard it is to stand in front of him and being shot by all his insults and blames, without any explanation? Do you know how hard it is for me being a wife to Sandy and a mother to you, without knowing what happened between the two of you?" She asks me. It's too much for me: too many words streaming into my head; too many words I have to think about; too many questions I have to process in my head before I can answer them properly.

"You know what? At some point what you did became selfish and did you know when? At that moment in which I came to you, seeking the conversation. Your life is only turning around yourself, or why didn't you tell anyone? Did you even think about what it did to Seth when he accidentally found out that his best friend is sick, or what it may have done to him to find out that his best friend is dead without having known why, although he had been in contact with you?" She screams into my face, without knowing what she's actually screaming about.

"What the fuck do you know?" I have no idea what this fight is, but I won't allow her to behave like that. This totally unjustified.

"Tell me. Begin with: why you left the hospital against every medical advice?" She has finally calmed down. She demands explanations I'm reluctant to give to her, but if I want to be alone within the next few minutes I have to talk to her.

"Do you know how expensive one day in hospital is?" I ask her back. What the hell is going on in her head? Why does she bother? Why now? Nearly three years after I left they think they could just pop up in my life again and then things go as if nothing has changed? They couldn't seriously have been thinking that.

K.

"Don't tell me that you're serious with that." Money? Since when is Ryan Atwood worried about money. This had been the last topic he was concerned of. I can't imagine that he's risking his health only because of money. He's too smart for that.

"What do you think? I don't have enough money to afford an insurance that actually would pay for that. Sorry that I'm not living in the wealth that you're used to, but not everybody has the luck to grow up in one of the richest families of California." I'm flattered. I can't believe that he's thinking that and that he's using it against me. This has never been one of Ryan's methods to get rid of someone.

"No, but you could!" I tell him. Nobody explicitly forced him out. He went voluntarily, without anyone telling him to go. I'm not going to take the blame for him leaving.

"And to what price?"?

To what price? A defeating sentence. What did I think? That he can take it a second time: watching how his mother was drifting into alcoholism, being the parent, because the others are out of service, being the punching bag and being burdened with more responsibility a kid in his age should be capable of taking? No, he couldn't and I shouldn't have expected him to be capable of that, but not having an idea about his past and his feeling connected to it is making it difficult to see behind the facade of the rough and tough boy who doesn't seem to know any pain and hurt. I can only look at him. There's nothing left to be said. He won't forgive me or us.

"You're right." I answer and then turn around. It was a stupid idea to think he would come with me and things would start to be as they've been before. Too much has happened, and worst: I don't even know what it was.

"I only want you to know how sorry I am for having put you through all of this. You shouldn't have had to deal with this again. There's only one thing I want you to believe me: I didn't become an alcoholic to hurt you. I had no control over it, because if I had, I'd never started doing things that had hurt you and Seth. Anyway I can't make it undone and the reason why I wanted you to come with me was because I worry about you: every single second since you've left. Indeed I didn't look for you, because I sensed that you must have your reasons for leaving, but when I saw this letter I realised it had been the wrong decision and that I never should have let you alone. And now I'm here because I'm afraid to lose you – to lose one of my sons. After all that has happened this is probably hard to believe, but it's the truth. I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of you being alone in this situation. I…want to be at your side and help you…even if you think you can't go any further. I want to be the one who pushes you through this, but you don't want to let me and I have to accept it. You're right. I have gambled away my rights of a mother and …I'm really sorry for that." I tell him. I feel the tears tickling in my eyes, but I swallow them down. I can't break down, not in front of him.

R.

Shit. Nice, and now I feel like an asshole? Is that fair? Is it fair that she's still able to make me feel bad, to produce a bad conscience which is absorbing me entirely? Is that fair? Deep down I feel that I don't want anything more than going back and have things as they've been before, but after what has happened? It's so fucking hard. It's ripping my soul into pieces. I want to go back, but I'm afraid. What happened can happen ever and ever again, and I' m not solely talking about the drinking. I'm pretty much over that. It's…I can't look him into his face, without feeling fear and hatred at once. It's exactly the feeling that I had towards my father, it's only worse. He gave me the feeling of being protected, of not having to be afraid and then he changed and I couldn't prevent it. As much as I want to believe that this had been an exceptional situation, I can't lose the feeling of being afraid of a person in whose presence I once felt the most protected. But somehow she's right. That had nothing to do with Seth and less to do with her. I watch her leave. She wants to know about it, but I can't tell her. She probably wouldn't believe me anyway. This hadn't been Sandy at all. Sandy wasn't supposed to react that way. No, they won't believe me. I hadn't been there for longer than a year. There was no reason why she'd believe me instead of him.

K.

When I'm standing in the doorframe I turn around one last time. I'm disappointed. Somewhere I had guessed he'd respond to what I've said: giving me pieces to understand him. He didn't. We lock eyes and there's something. I can see desperation and depression at once. He's looking so helpless. He's looking like a Ryan who's struggling for an explanation and wrapping it into the right words, but I can't help him. He got lost somewhere on the way over the years and it's my, and my husband's fault rather than his. I turn around again and put my hand onto the handle.

"What do you want to hear?"

I hear a fragile and trembling voice. I close my eyes. Eventually. Eventually he gave me something. One sentence can sometimes be more than every testimony. I can hear what lies underneath this sentence. I stop and face the door. What do I want to hear? I don't think I can pronounce it in one sentence.

"What made you leave and never come back? I figured out that it's somehow related to something between you and Sandy, but…I also think there's more and I'd already be happy if you only talked to me about this 'little more'." I tell him. I hear him sigh.

"You mean that it was fucking hard for me to watch you losing it more and more? That it was even harder for me than watching my mother losing it, because I got to know the person before the alcoholism? That I only stayed, because Seth begged me to and I wasn't able to abandon him, because I remembered what crappy feeling it is to be abandoned in such a situation? That I felt like living through my past again? That it was one entire nightmare and not even my girlfriend had been there for me?"

R.

I let her in into pieces of what it was like for me. If this is what she wants she can get it. I'm tired and I can't tell of what. Maybe it's the medication that's making me confused, or maybe it's the whole situation which starts to frighten me: not knowing how things are going from here, not having any certainty about how the next day might be, not having control over myself.

K.

I watch him. He looks exhausted. I can't imagine what agony prevails in him, not only physically, but even psychological. I go back and sit down on the edge of the bed. I take his hand. It's ice cold. I look into his eyes and I don't need to have any psychological degree to see his suffering. With my thumb I rub a little spot on the back of his hand where the colour of the skin is different from the rest. It's no mole, just a little spot that is a little paler than the rest of the skin. I've never noticed it before. I never felt emotionally so close to Ryan.

"I'm truly honest: I can't imagine how the situation had affected you or Seth, I only know that it must have been awful. Things between Seth and me will never be the same again, neither will it be between me and Sandy and I don't expect them to be between the two of us. I only want there something to be, something that allows me to take care of you. And I'm not saying this out of pity, because I'm Caleb Nichols daughter. I don't do pity, understood?"