Waking up, pt. I
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(six years earlier)
Jack woke up with a dizzy head. He felt nauseous in the very first moment that he opened up his eyes.
As he looked around, he found himself lying on the same rotten blanket where had already spent the previous two nights.
He felt cold and soon found out the reason why: obviously, he had used his sweater as a provisional pillow and had covered himself only with his jacket.
As he pulled it away a bit, he froze.
There was a sting in his left armpit. It hurt a little, whenever he moved his arm.
As he found the syringe lying next to his body, he couldn't believe what he had done. Damn it, he hissed, took it and had a look. What have I done?
The way it felt like - and the way it looked like, he'd had an awful load.
Remembering like it had been yesterday, that he had had this feeling for the last time - the dizziness, the sickness and at the same time the wish to already have some more. That wish was only there because he exactly knew that having more of this would make all these symptoms better.
Slowly, he sat up.
Slowly, not to make the sickness even worse.
The morning before, he had made up a plan to eat regularly - as much as he could, to get back some strength and weight that he had lost over the course of the past months.
But today, he felt like puking it all out again.
Weakly he got to his feet and stumbled across the room, to the window.
On the way there, he needed to hold on to the wall, not to stumble.
As he looked outside, he realized that it wasn't only bright - it was at least a few hours into the day. The high must have struck him down for more than half the day.
Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes for a moment, as he leant against the window frame. Even a few deep breaths couldn't get his wellbeing back.
In addition to the sickness, his whole body still hurt.
Wearily, he leant over and looked at himself, in the reflection, in one of the other window panes.
The person that he saw in there, it looked worse than ever before.
The last time that he had looked so bad, it had been years ago, on the climax of his heroine addiction. But not even back then he had looked as bad as he looked like right now.
The big chemical burn on his left shoulder hurt immensely. Touching it made it only worse, so he let it be.
He knew that he had to use some of the money that he had left - if there was any - to go and buy something to dress that wound. More than a day ago, he had taken a look at the wounds on his back for the last time. Some of them hurt, some not. Looking at them he hadn't even been able to differ which were which.
They were there. He'd never get rid of them again. Even if they'd stop to hurt one day, they'd still be there and would always remind him of what had happened.
Tiredly, he closed his eyes and turned away.
Get dressed, he told himself, though it was damn hot in here and he was already sweating without anything on. Those are just the drugs, he reminded himself about the sudden heat that he felt. He was used to this. He knew all the withdrawal symptoms by heart.
Every other step hurt. Holding on to the wall, he laboriously made his way back, to fetch that dirty blue shirt from where he'd left it.
As he picked it up, a small bottle fell out, onto the blanket.
His heart sank. That was it. There was still something left.
He knelt down and took the bottle into his hands. It looked almost the same like the ones that he'd had years ago. Obviously, he had bought that stuff, although he couldn't really remember anything.
Feverishly he tried to think back.
He'd broken in to Heller's house. He had seen Audrey. End.
Heller had thrown him out of the house the last time. Maybe yesterday evening, too, and he just couldn't remember.
All the time, as he put on his shirt and and the jacket over it, he held the small bottle in his hand, had grabbed it so tight that the glass almost broke.
No matter where he had gotten it from. It was here.
He took the blanket with him, into the corner of the room, and sat down there.
He was freezing. Just a withdrawal symptom.
His back hurt, his shoulder hurt.. his broken ribs hurt.. everything did.
He felt like being sick any other second. Just another withdrawal symptom.
Wearily, he closed his eyes, hugged his knees and waited for it all to get better.
Knowing already that it wouldn't.
—
Now
Camp David
He had stepped out of the shower, half an hour ago.
Right now he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, still looking at himself in the reflection. He had been standing here for all that time, almost motionlessly. Even his hair was dry by now.
Ever since Heller had thrown him out of Audrey's room, reminding him of what had happened, six years ago, his thoughts had only revolved around that.
During the conference.
During the after-conference meetings.
Even as he sat in the dining hall, together with all the delegation members and Heller.
The secretary hadn't lost a single word about this any more. Somehow, they were back to their silent understanding. Heller knew some ugly details about him and his past - details, that could even degrade him in Audrey's eyes, if her father would ever tell her.
In turn, he knew how Heller had abused his power to keep him away or even worse.
It was an unspoken agreement between them both, that nobody would lose a single word about what they knew.
The Tokareva gun lay in front of him, on the verge of the sink. He didn't take his eyes off it, not for a single moment. He had carried it with him, the whole day long, even though the secret service had forbidden him long ago to carry a gun.
But he was good at hiding it. He had always been.
As he looked as his wristwatch - past 1 am in the morning - he wondered how he had managed to go without a drink, a cigarette or something else up to now.
He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't do that shit any longer.
For Audrey.
Or just for the sake of showing Heller that he could go without it?
Thinking that was a nonsense. Nobody knew about it. No-one knew, not Heller and not Harry, that he had lived on Whiskey, Cocaine and Cigarettes to bear being here in this cage full of rats, called an ‚administration'.
The drugs were just over there. The strong ones - not the Cocaine. The real ones.
He had bought them, months ago, as there had been a good chance to do so. Never touched them. Not ever.
He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, still staring at the cabinet that he just needed to open up to find everything that his sick mind demanded him to take to quiet it's nagging voice in the back of his head.
It would be so easy.
It would make everything so bad in the aftermath. Tomorrow, he'd wake up and be a different person. As he remembered, what these things had made him capable for - what he had been able to do down in Mexico - there was nothing that he couldn't have done. There was nothing where he had felt like he wouldn't be up to it.
He was beyond tired. He had been, all day, after the effect of the last high had worn off.
But going to sleep was not an option, without being haunted by nightmares - the ones that he'd normally kill with Whiskey.
Finally, he stood up to get dressed, taking the gun with him. If he stayed in this room for one more minute - there would be no back any more.
—
Hospital ward, Audrey's room.
„Is the secretary of defense still here?", he asked the Secret Service agent at the door to Audrey's room. It was a guy that he knew very well - and they trusted each other. Aaron Pierce had personally instated this man, and he had made a good choice.
„No, Sir. He left an hour ago.", the agent answered.
Thank you, Jack murmured, and opened the door, very silently. Once more, he leant over to the agent, telling him, „and he doesn't need to know that I was here."
The man just nodded for an answer.
Inside, everything was ghostly silent.
The doctors were out there somewhere, but obviously they considered Audrey to be stable enough so she wouldn't need 24-hours of attention.
He took a chair and carefully placed it at the side of the bed.
She looked like a sleeping angel. No sound, in the whole room.
A few cables were fixed to her torso and her hands - showing a stable heart rate and blood pressure.
He knew that she had lost a lot of blood. She had been on the verge. Again. After so many countless occasions already.
Somehow, he could understand Heller perfectly, why he didn't want him to be anywhere near her.
Tiredly, he leant forward, resting his crossed arms on the bed and his head on top. With one hand he had clasped Audrey's left hand. It was lifeless- but warm and soft.
I've done so many things that you wouldn't approve, he murmured, knowing that she couldn't hear it, but he fell against the urge to tell her, and I am still
Like a traveler, who had finally reached his destination, he finally drifted of to sleep.
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