Blackbird

by SpookyMormonHellDream

Modern AU, E/C. Dr. Erik Riley had always been alone, with few exceptions - he'd expected to remain that way indefinitely. However, an administrative error forced a young medical student into his life, setting in motion a series of events that would change the both of them forever, if only he would allow himself to overcome his own troubled past.

42. Waging Wars on Myself

Author's Note: Welcome back again, y'all! Thank you for your patience, and please let me know what you think. The title for this chapter comes from lyrics to the song "Hate Me" by Blue October. Enjoy!

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Chapter 32 - Waging Wars on Myself

Erik

Despite being drunk last night, I knew immediately where I was when I woke up again, and, under the unforgiving glare of sobriety, I hated myself for it.

The holding cell was lit constantly, regardless of the time of day, by fluorescent rods lined up neatly along the high tiled ceiling, and solely those - there were no windows lending a view to the street beyond the police station that I'd landed myself in the previous evening, no display of anything outside of the building at all. Rather, the only window that showed me any kind of view was the long wire-inlaid strip of glass set in the magnet-lock door of the cell itself, sharpening the suffocating sense of isolation and embarrassment that crashed through my mind the moment I opened my eyes; but even then, all that there was to be seen from the door just ahead of where I was laying was an obscured corner of the station's intake unit, and the small section of the unit that was allocated to a desk belonging the deputy in charge overnight. As such, it was the sound of his gnarled fist rapping against the reinforced window that roused me entirely from a haze of thoughts and clutching memories, instead of the bright morning sunlight fighting its way past the heavy curtains in my bedroom and the distinct sounds of home that I was so accustomed to, even lately - even on my worst days during the past several months when I'd felt compelled to hide another hangover and feign normalcy among my self-imposed chaos.

Once the deputy had gotten my attention, he informed me brusquely that it was morning, and that I'd be leaving once I handled a few points of procedure with the next available officer. That news in itself, the prospect of my returned freedom at the very least, was an immense relief in spite of the unease that I was already experiencing, but only because being released meant that I would finally be able to get in touch with Christine; I dimly recalled thinking the night before that she was probably terrified by not hearing from me during the time between my leaving the house in Schaumburg and getting arrested in Chicago, and now that it was apparently daylight and I hadn't even so much as sent a text, her terror had likely intensified beyond belief. For the entirety of our relationship, I'd never once disappeared without warning or reason in one form or another, had never been unreachable by phone if I wasn't on a plane or at work, and I couldn't imagine how badly I had scared her. If the roles were reversed, if I was the one left in the dark without answers - without any line of communication whatsoever - I certainly would've been going insane with my own fear. And so, my primary goal upon handling my paperwork and getting my phone back was to call Christine straightaway, and although I still didn't know how exactly to open that particular conversation, it was my priority.

My whole body was stiff from sleeping on the metal bench, and I was hungover - even just the low hum of the lights flickering at odd intervals above me was uncomfortable, when under any other circumstances I wouldn't have given them a second thought - and it wasn't long before I realized that my jaw still ached noticeably from being punched. By then, I remembered with surprising clarity why exactly it hurt to begin with, and at the images playing out in my mind's eye of everything that unfolded at the waterfront, I distantly wondered if the man that had hit me was faring the same from my returned blows. Luckily, though, I was spared the awkwardness of finding out either way for myself; whether he'd been brought to the same station as I had or sent elsewhere, I would never know. Neither he nor anyone from his group had pressed charges against me, I'd later learn, and therefore that momentary encounter was where our paths had simultaneously crossed and separated again all at once. At any rate, whatever part of me that remained human had the decency to feel guilty for what I'd done - in the end, that man was simply a stand-in for my bastard father, an unfortunate placeholder to take the brunt of my anger for every mistreatment that Nick had committed, but nothing more. I recognized that much, and if nothing else, the steady throbbing in my jaw alone would be a harsh reminder of that misplaced conflict for the foreseeable future.

Distracted to an extent by those thoughts - and trying almost desperately all the while to avoid considering the very real consequences that waited for me when I got home for any longer than I had to - I was allowed to leave the holding cell at the officer's instruction a short time after initially being woken up, listening with half-hearted interest as he explained what would happen next. In the meantime, while I was told to wait for my turn to be spoken to and sent on my way, the officer handed me a travel-size bottle of mouthwash and other small toiletries from a pre-made kit that they obviously kept on-hand for sorry cases like mine, and let me put myself back together in private; otherwise, he'd barely said a word to me, though I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'd truly preferred his relative silence. There was no point in chastising me - I was well aware of everything that I'd done wrong - and the officer clearly hadn't taken it upon himself to lecture me, either. Instead, I sustained my own silence and went about making myself as presentable as I could, before eventually moving on to a different section of the station - this one largely dedicated to relevant administration and discharge, rather than holding arrestees in custody - speaking to another officer that would clear me to leave and hand over the few possessions that I'd had on me last night.

Ultimately, I was given an official date for my arraignment the following week, and would likely have to pay a steep fine, if not earn myself at minimum a misdemeanor and potentially face jail time for disorderly conduct, as far as I understood; I knew that I needed to pay attention as the officer outlined what was on the paperwork laid out on his counter, but I was having more trouble concentrating on the reality of what he was saying than I'd expected. My mind was reeling from it all. I did know that I wasn't being charged for assault, which could only benefit me by then, but even though the other party had decided not to press charges for the fight, that didn't mean that I was excused entirely. After reading the complaint regarding the incident in the police report, the judge would make the final determination at my court date, and on that point specifically, I had no idea what that determination might actually mean for me. Quite frankly, the prospect of so many unknowns was terrifying. And yet, somehow, I gradually managed to tamp down my stress and the ringing in my ears just enough to function, managed to maintain outward indifference while the officer continued to speak, and as he did so, in turn I found myself keeping a running list of what were now several more problems tacked on to my already mounting concerns. Yet even if it had been practical to try, I honestly didn't have the presence of mind to sort it all out in those moments.

Rather, I just signed my paperwork - stubbornly avoiding all attempts at small-talk made by the officer that was working on my discharge procedures - as I glanced at each page that was passed over to me, a seemingly endless succession of formal documents that I sincerely wished never had a reason to exist in the first place.

As the process moved ahead, I'd nodded or otherwise indicated my cooperation when murmured responses were appropriate, squared my shoulders to fend off my agitation, and focused on getting through one instant after another. By the time my belongings were returned to me, though, I was more than a little weary from the effort, and it was only when the officer placed everything on the counter, one-by-one to ensure that each item was accounted for, that I was put even the slightest bit more at ease. Because when that task was finished, I immediately pulled my surgical mask from the small stack of what had been withheld since I'd arrived - my keys, wallet, and phone were important, and the half-empty pack of American Spirits with the lighter tucked among the cigarettes would be a welcomed, albeit fleeting escape as soon as I stepped outside, but putting the mask back on at least let me shrug off the decidedly uncomfortable feeling that I was under a microscope with my scars exposed. After what had happened in the span of less than a day, I would take every piece of refuge available that might ward off further anxiety.

Confirming that everything had been returned and that nothing had been damaged upon confiscation, the officer set down what would turn out to be the last collection of paperwork for me to sign that indicated as much. He spoke with a heavy Midwestern accent, I distantly noted, namely one that I had come to know as being distinct to Chicago proper, as apparent to me as my own accent likely was to him - he was probably born and raised right here in the city and hadn't ventured far since, from the sound of it. But even though he was persistent in attempting to draw out some semblance of a conversation unrelated to legal matters, I really didn't intend to press for any details of his life, preferring to keep my distance regardless of his demeanor being significantly more approachable than his coworker's had been.

"Southpaw, huh?" he asked - as if noticing how I was writing for the first time - when I'd once again lapsed into silence while I skimmed the words on the pages in front of me. His tone was casual as he nodded toward the paperwork that I was finishing with my left hand.

"Right," I responded quickly, if not a bit impatiently.

"And what's all that about?" he continued, gesturing toward my face, now half-hidden by the surgical mask, "I saw the scarring on you before, obviously. What's the story there?"

"I was in the Army."

"Ah. Well, thank you for your service."

Ignoring that - yet grateful just the same that he'd seemed to have the good sense not to ask me to delve into what about my time in the Army had led to an injury severe enough to convince me to keep its remnants covered - I added my last signature and dated the line beside it, sliding the clipboard across the counter back to him once I'd finished, "Is that everything?"

"Yup. You're free to go."

I didn't need to be told twice; my car had been towed and impounded overnight, and so knowing that I needed to go to the impound lot next and call Christine on my way, I left the police station quickly. I took long strides once I was out on the city sidewalk and got my bearings, using that pace in my favor to avoid throwing myself into absolute panic while the gravity of my situation continued to process in the back of my mind. My problems were far from over, but I decided that if I didn't force myself to address one issue at a time, and only that much, then I wouldn't be able to approach anything that I needed to with even the slightest modicum of logic or level-headedness, and I couldn't afford to slip any further backward than I already had. A part of me knew that this was denial speaking, to an extent, if not outright fear of confronting exactly why I was so far off my life's ideal path, but to consider each of those convoluted factors directly was simply too overwhelming for me then; stress-addled, I just let denial win for the time being, and kept walking hurriedly instead, moving to light a cigarette in order to occupy my hands, the teal pack and promise of stale smoke standing out starkly against the crowded backdrop of the city and the icy January morning air and the impossibly bright sun that loomed overhead.

Aware that I couldn't handle any more setbacks, all things considered, I was grateful that my phone wasn't dead when I took it out of the deep pocket of my too-thin jacket to make my call - I hadn't thought to check on that particular detail when it was initially returned to me, but I saw now that the battery was low from going so many hours without being charged, though at least it wasn't so far gone that I wouldn't be able to rely on it to hold out for the duration of the coming discussion. As it stood, I wasn't expecting this conversation to be very long to begin with, although that assumption still did little for my confidence as I walked deeper downtown, distractedly avoiding everyone around me as I did so. Rather, my heart was pounding even before I dialed, its rate somehow increasing as the line continued to ring, each beat raising further apprehension in my nerves that were already facing off with their ebbing limitations. And as the seemingly endless seconds between unlocking my phone and tapping my wife's number dragged on, I nearly missed my own name sounding sharply on her voice when she finally answered - she'd given no formal greeting then, nothing even remotely resembling the warmth that I always associated with her, but instead only frantic disbelief painted her tone in that instant, demanding me to confirm that I was actually the one calling her after a night of total silence.

"Christine," I sighed in response, suddenly unsure of what else to say, yet relieved in spite of everything just to hear her voice again at all, regardless of what I heard there and why. And for a moment - if only a fragment of time at that - I felt my heartbeat slow close to normal once more. It wouldn't last, of course - I was on edge again almost immediately - but it was enough to ground me, to force me to prepare for whatever I needed to say going forward.

"It's him," Christine said away from the phone, most likely to Nadir, because there was no way he wouldn't be involved now, before returning her attention to me, "What the hell happened to you? Where are you?"

"I'm in Chicago," I said, evading the first question altogether, and the guilt that had met me upon waking panged in my chest all over again. She didn't deserve to go without answers - I'd kept her in the dark for far too long already, and I was actively hurting her in turn - but by that point, I'd realized that I sincerely didn't know where to begin, didn't know how to condense months of issues and mistakes into an adequate explanation for why I had disappeared overnight, especially when she and I weren't even in the same room as one another. It felt distasteful to address over the phone, as if it were that simple. But even if it was appropriate to do so, I didn't necessarily want to broadcast everything that I'd done wrong to the people filing past me, either; whether they were actively listening to me or not, I'd drawn more than enough attention to myself as it stood, and I didn't want to invite more. So I decided to keep my responses short instead, offering only the most imperative information while we spoke.

Still, because she had absolutely no way of knowing what I was thinking then, Christine was clearly agitated when she demanded, "Why? Have you seriously been in the city all night? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

I hesitated, weighing my words in a tense stretch of silence before admitting in a murmur, "I got arrested last night."

"Are you kidding? For what?"

"I got into a fight with someone - "

" - Why would you - "

" - I just lost my temper, it's fine - "

" - But I don't understand why - "

" - Look, my car's been impounded," I said, but more harshly than I'd intended, and so I stopped walking and stepped off of the main walkway to take a deep drag of my cigarette and rein in my anxiety without getting in anyone's way before I began again, "I need to go deal with that, and then I'll come home, alright? I'll explain everything then."

She sighed, obviously dissatisfied with everything I'd had to say, but eventually she responded with evident resignation, "Hurry up."

My phone gave a series of beeps to indicate that she'd ended the call, and the lack of a goodbye in any form was painfully apparent in the scope of our stilted exchange; with that absence and those dully electronic tones in its wake, I felt the weight on my shoulders intensify that much more, accompanied by a heaviness in my chest that signalled a deepening dread for whatever was about to happen. There would be no avoiding a confrontation at home, one way or another - picking up my car and driving back to Schaumburg would only delay the inevitable, but no matter what, we were standing at the edge of a conversation that I truly didn't want to have in the first place, and that was daunting to consider. Putting my phone away again and stomping out the cigarette with more force than was warranted, as I went back onto the sidewalk I found myself struggling to think of how to best approach Christine after too many arguments, after the way I had left her last night, so abrupt and aggressive and unreasonable.

Yet, though not for lack of trying, I still didn't know what to say to her; even after being arrested, I couldn't settle down and bring myself to speak the full, shameful truth and get it over with. My transgressions following Gene's death had driven a wedge between us steadily over time, our interactions growing more strained and distant every day, especially recently, and this latest mistake on my part was probably the end of what either of us could withstand. But Christine would have to know at least a portion of what had happened - simply to explain why I'd spent the night in a holding cell and was scheduled for court, if nothing else - and thus I was faced with the prospect of lying to her again, of giving her a half-truth by omitting the fact that I'd been drinking when my fight at the waterfront had taken place, or I would have to admit everything, would have no choice but to confess all that I'd done wrong since the summer and embrace the fallout. Neither option boded well for me, in my mind - so for the moment, I chose not to dwell on either path at all, because I just didn't know what to do, and I wasn't ready to try to figure any of it out on my own. I felt control slipping further from my hands, and it was terrifying; the consequences that I'd been stalling for months couldn't be contained any longer.

I couldn't bring myself to comprehend it then, not entirely - but I was clearly, irrevocably backing myself into a corner of my own making, and I knew myself well enough to understand that my desire to run was stronger than my will to rebuild.

~~oOo~~

It was still only the early afternoon when I pulled into my driveway, not bothering with the garage and absently noting Nadir's car parked at the curb upon my arrival - but even so, a faint haze of smoke had gathered high above the street from several neighbors' fireplaces, much of it clinging to the horizon in turn, the distinct and acrid scent of firewood mingling with the threat of another snowstorm as I walked with hollow steps up to the front door. On my way, I could hear other signs of life in the distance, the occasional blare of a siren cutting through the traffic on the busier roads beyond our subdivision, and children running through their yards, many of whom were friends with Josie. Something that had initially appealed to me when I bought this house was being somewhat connected to the city without feeling entirely smothered by it, and that still rang true. Under any other circumstances, such a scene would have been welcoming, a long-familiar keystone to coming home after a hectic workday away from my family; now, though, that once-comforting familiarity contrasted sharply with the anxiety that continued to pull at my thoughts, with everything that had contributed to that anxiety, and I resented how often such comparisons had become so recently obvious. The weight of that notion alone slowed me down once again.

Dead man walking, I thought bitterly as I forced myself forward, then shook my head, Don't be so fucking morbid.

As soon as I walked through the door and habitually took off my surgical mask, Rex barked, immediately recognizing how unsettled I was and approaching quickly in line with his training as a service dog, and Willow skittered across the living room, hiding behind an end table at the sudden commotion coming from the front of the house. The cat would come out when she felt comfortable, so instead of upsetting her by trying to coax her back into open space, I just knelt down to acknowledge Rex, hoping desperately to utilize his purpose to anchor myself to reality and everything that I needed to confront by doing so. But my attempt was short-lived in the end; before I could process anything else further, or make up my mind about exactly how to proceed, I heard Christine call out to me as she rushed down the stairs, and the next thing I knew, she was in my line of sight, anger and worry alight in her eyes, just as Nadir came into the living room from the door off the back deck wearing a similar expression, apparently having his cigarette interrupted when he was alerted to my presence as Christine had been by Rex, the dog remaining at the periphery of our group. I was right to assume that my absence overnight, though briefly explained by then, would scare them badly - but seeing them both this furious was still jarring. I should have expected as much, but it hurt to accept just the same.

And all at once, even this anticipated encounter was more than I could handle - just as it had the night before, something in me broke. Raising stiffly to my full height, any sense of reason or accountability fled my mind, and at their coming near me, each of them appearing at my side from opposite directions while shooting a line of questions that I couldn't hear with my ears suddenly ringing, I realized that I wasn't ready to speak to them after all. Regardless of what I'd told Christine over the phone, I couldn't bring myself to offer any further explanations about my arrest, nevermind delving into the details of my relapse that were the undeniable link to my whereabouts the previous evening. Despite whatever good intentions I'd meant to find the courage for during my drive home, they were long-gone now. Rather, I panicked, and felt myself stepping toward the door again before I was even conscious of coming to the decision to begin with. Although it was only the two of them ready to draw answers from me, I felt surrounded, felt as if there was a crowd of onlookers witnessing my final collapse, and the anxiety weighing on my mind that had only moments ago been relatively controlled was suddenly crashing down around me, relentless and impossibly loud. And in that simple act of stepping backward, my intention to run was painfully clear, and ultimately, it was Nadir that maneuvered around me to block my most direct path to escape.

So I went nearly motionless, hands tightly fisted at my side - I had to force myself to stay calm, had to force my thoughts to make sense.

Closing my eyes, I focused on taking a deep breath, and then another, barely registering the moment when Christine walked up directly beside me, reaching out to my bruised face as she asked softly, and likely not for the first time, "What happened to your jaw?"

"I told you, I was in a fight," I responded, my voice terse and reedy.

"Let me see it," Nadir said evenly, with all the detached professionalism that his years working with noncompliant patients in the ER had instilled in him, slowly returning to my side and gesturing in much the same way Christine had toward my injury.

But, eyes wide now, I flinched away from him, not willing to accept the physical contact, "It's fine, it obviously isn't broken, just leave it alone," I snapped, before taking another breath and looking to my wife, "Where's Josie?" I added, because even though I was already sure of the answer, the fact that my daughter hadn't greeted me at the door as usual had unsettled me that much further. It was clear that she wasn't in the house - there was no sound of her running around upstairs in her bedroom, no music blaring from the television in the living room from whatever Disney movie she'd decided to have on repeat that week, and without her presence, obvious or otherwise, I just wanted to have it confirmed exactly where she was for my own peace of mind. I needed something to cling to, for the sake of my waning control if nothing else.

"Still with Sahra," Christine said flatly, ignorant to what was going through my mind then, "When I couldn't get ahold of you last night, I decided not to pick her up this morning, not until I figured out what happened to you. I didn't want to scare her."

The accusation in her tone was subtle, but still impossible to miss even so, and once again I was having trouble staying calm in the face of what I'd set into motion - once again, I was smothered by my guilt. Josie was only supposed to stay with Nadir and Sahra overnight while Christine and I dealt with mediation the previous day - what now seemed like a lifetime ago in the scope of everything that had happened since - and it wasn't fair that she didn't get to be at home right now as planned. None of this was fair to her.

Closing my eyes again, I could only nod in return, but that wasn't enough - Christine and Nadir were expecting real answers, and for as long as I remained silent, their impatience, regardless of coming from a place of concern, was nearly tangible. From the moment I'd walked into the house, I'd sincerely wanted to maintain at least an outward veil of composure, to finally do the right thing somehow, but on the heels of Christine's words and my own continuing fight against myself, I'd failed miserably; I couldn't keep up with my warring thoughts, with the confinement of my anxiety, falling apart that much more irreparably instead. And so, when Nadir began to probe for more information about my arrest, escape still honestly felt like my only option, coward that I was, and I made to leave once more. But he reached out before I could even complete my turn, grasping my upper arm firmly and forcing me to make eye-contact.

Only when my stare grudgingly met his own did he make another attempt to speak, an unquestionable air of authority painting his tone when he asked, "What happened last night?"

"Let me go."

"Erik, we need to talk to you - "

" - Let me go, now!" I ground out, my voice quickly going hoarse as I pulled away and yelled, "Back off!"

But he wouldn't be intimidated, and in my mind, I was trapped; my defensiveness flared up beyond the realm of reason then - when he moved to block my path, I lashed out without stopping to consider the very real consequences that would most assuredly come of that incredibly misguided decision, shoving him away with enough strength to cause a misstep in him that nearly sent him falling backward. As it stood, he appeared to lose his steady demeanor in the blatant confusion over my outburst, and he fought back seemingly before thinking better of engaging. He grabbed ahold of my shoulders and slammed me against the wall outside of the kitchen, pinning me there as Christine pled for both of us to settle down and separate and Rex barked in rapid succession in turn. Yet I didn't listen to her any more than I'd listened to Nadir before, couldn't convince myself to see reason, taking a swing at Nadir instead - thankfully, though, I'd missed my mark entirely, but still moved to try again, and that was when Christine stepped resolutely between us to interject. But with more force than I'd intended, more aggression than I would ever use against a woman, let alone my own wife, I caught her by her wrists, her arms held up high - presumably to pull me toward her to reset my attention, only to be interrupted mid-gesture by my icy grip. She gasped, genuine fear simultaneously clouding her features, and in that instant, it was in that brawling stance that I finally froze.

No. No, no, no…

What have I done?

Breathing hard - though whether from the exertion of my fight with Nadir or from the absolute shock of this wrong I'd just committed against Christine, I couldn't say - I looked into her eyes for an immeasurable time as the gravity of my actions came to rest in my mind. This turmoil had gone too far - I had allowed it to go too far, for everyone involved. Nadir and I had certainly argued over the years of our friendship, but none of those conflicts had ever come to blows, not even close, and never once had I raised my hand against Christine; I could have formerly claimed that I was better than that brand of inexcusable behavior, but that was no longer the case, and I was appalled with myself for nearly crossing that line. Sickened, I broke eye-contact with my wife immediately upon feeling the first inklings of remorse and self-disgust, and took a quick but unsteady step away from her, holding my now-shaking hands up in a gesture of surrender before raising them to cover my mouth, simply to keep myself from screaming. Unshed tears burned in my eyes as I murmured, my words partially obscured by where my hands remained in place, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry. Please, just let me leave."

"No, you can't leave. We have to talk to you," she insisted, her bravery astounding to me even then, though the waver in her voice alerted me to how distraught she was by what had just unfolded at my doing.

"What happened last night, Erik?" Nadir demanded, relentless in spite of my attack, "How did you manage to get yourself arrested? What happened?"

Part of me wanted to respond as vaguely as possible, to repeat what little information I'd already given and hope that they'd just let this conversation die. But I knew that neither method of evasion would work whatsoever - it was too late for those efforts. I was well past any of that form of deception, and I damn well knew as much from the start, no matter how long I had stubbornly denied that truth. There was no putting this off indefinitely, nothing else that I could do to save myself from bringing my lies and my repeated mistakes out of the shadows, no means of escape whatsoever; there was simply no point in hiding any longer. So, resigned, as Rex sat stoically next to me, I wrapped numb arms around my chest and admitted almost inaudibly, "I went to Chicago, to the waterfront, and I got drunk, and I got in a fight with someone there. I don't know who…But that's why I was arrested. That's why I was gone all night."

Christine closed her eyes and exhaled unsteadily, seemingly having expected that confession all the while, but heartbroken to hear it meet the air just the same. The notion wouldn't occur to me until later, but it was likely that she and Nadir had already speculated as much, probably running every possible scenario regarding the underlying cause - beyond the stress that Nick and his wife were leveling at us - of my heated departure the night before during their hours spent trying to reach me; but from what I gathered from her expression now, she had fiercely hoped that it wasn't true, that alcohol hadn't played a single role in this mess and that there was some other reason behind my disappearance, something far more manageable than the reality that I'd constructed.

"You were drinking?" Nadir asked in near-disbelief. At my nod in the affirmative, he continued, "When did it start again?"

"After Gene's funeral, when Nick first threatened to take us to court over Jo."

"After the funeral?" Christine confirmed, and when I gave another mute nod in response, she just shook her head in pained disappointment. Because it appeared in that instant that she was putting the carefully misleading pieces of my behavior over the past several months together, that she was slowly realizing that everything we had experienced between the summer and now had existed under a shroud of deceit. My every move, my every word to her in all of that time, directly related or otherwise, was stained with it; the source of my relapse didn't matter, the conversation with Nick in that bar in Memphis was nothing, because the fault for the outcome was entirely my own, my reaction wholly my responsibility. I knew better, and I could have prevented all of this, yet I simply hadn't, nor had I reached out for help even when I'd had countless opportunities to do so. And my family, my closest friends, were the left to pay the price for my disturbing lack of judgment right alongside me; it was painful to reconcile with.

"You lied to me," Nadir snapped suddenly, cutting off my thoughts with the severity of his tone of voice alone, his words an echo from so many years ago, and it struck me that what he said now was almost verbatim to what he'd said in the past as he went on, "I asked you, I asked you if you'd started drinking again. Why didn't you say something?"

"I couldn't."

He scoffed, my words too succinct to be taken seriously, "Of course not. Again."

With that, I looked away, feeling my shame growing with every second spent under the weight of his glare. Though perhaps for different reasons, this was a betrayal to him as much as it was for Christine.

"Nadir," she began, as if my consideration of her had summoned her back into the discussion, "Can you give us some time alone?"

"You sure you want to be alone with him?"

She nodded decisively, "He won't hurt me."

Physically, she'd meant, leaving the word itself unspoken, but the implication painting her statement was loud and clear; the physical threat that I'd just posed had vanished as abruptly as it occurred, thank God, but revealing what I had to her was its own form of pain, and it wouldn't be so swiftly alleviated. And while she processed its staggering effects, I felt myself shrinking.

Nadir nodded, casting a warning glance in my direction before saying to us both, "I'm going home to check in. I'll come back later, but call if you need anything before then."

Grateful that they at least trusted me to behave again, I walked into the living room while Christine led Nadir to the front door, Rex trailing behind me. I couldn't hear their parting words, nor did I bother to try; my aim instead was to recapture my composure while I'd been given that instant by myself, and so I leaned heavily against the mantle above the fireplace to attempt to breathe evenly again.

Unlike so many neighbors around us, our fireplace was cold and empty that day, despite the frozen air outside and Christine's fondness for the distinct ambiance that a fire creates, one of her favorite aspects of winter here that she'd often declared might never cease being a novelty to her Californian spirit; I could almost smile at the memories of the carefree expression she'd always worn as she said that, but absurdly, instead I found myself trying to remember when we'd last built a fire simply for the sake of enjoyment, as if that detail mattered at all in the present. Sighing, I drew my attention from the hearth to the several picture frames lined up on the mantle shelf, some of which were my own from years back, but the majority of the collection steadily added by Christine over time, ever since she'd moved in with me. Between the frames were a handful of the crafts that she and Josie had put together recently, one in particular that had been especially important to Jo, a pom-pom and pipe-cleaner and sequined mess of a snowman that she'd announced had to stay out long after Christmas, solely because it was still winter and he belonged there until the spring. Her adamant logic was endearing, and her creative projects mingled with Christine's insistence that our family's best candid photos be printed and displayed were only a few of the ways that my wife and daughter had contributed to making my formerly austere house truly feel like a home.

It was all a brief distraction - that was, until I sensed Christine walking up behind me, her steps conspicuously hesitant, as if she was unsure of what my reaction would be now that we were alone together, as though she hadn't just asserted the opposite to Nadir. I hated myself for inspiring that doubt in her, that fear, but still made no effort to turn around until she curtly requested that I do so. And when we were face-to-face again, she didn't waste words, promptly telling me that I needed to explain everything that had gone wrong after Gene's funeral - at her command, I did just that, recounting my actions and decisions from the early stages of my relapse, to the hours that I'd lied about taking at the hospital in favor of drinking and the methods I'd used to hide the evidence of my increasing alcohol consumption, to the anxiety and the grief and the guilt that had accompanied me all the while. We'd remained standing for the entirety of my fully fleshed out confession, and during that time, I felt more and more out of place, more disconnected from myself and from Christine, feeling the tension radiating from her with every reaction she made to my words. When she realized the extent that I'd gone to in order to hide what happened, what I'd done, the tears shining in her eyes were threatening to spill; she was overwhelmed, and I wasn't surprised by that in the least. But worse than that, she was devastated, and I was the singular cause of that damage.

"You lied to me," she whispered when I'd finished speaking, her accusation a mirror to what Nadir had just said, "You've been lying to me - "

" - I know - "

" - I'm your wife. How could you do this? Erik…" she began again, but her voice broke as she said my name, and the sound of it absolutely shattered me.

"Honey, please - "

" - Why couldn't you just say something? You're going to drink yourself to death if you don't stop - "

" - Christine - "

" - And you have a family, do you remember us? Your father is actively trying to take our daughter from us, and you're giving him fodder for his case! Do you realize that? Did you ever think of that?" she demanded, a bit louder now, but I didn't answer immediately despite her increasing urgency. Because, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't ever actually considered that Nick would use the fact that I was an alcoholic against us in court. I wasn't sure if he was even aware that I was an alcoholic to begin with - until today, I'd been careful to the point of obsession to hide that aspect of myself from everyone around me, closely related or otherwise, and for all intents and purposes, I'd been successful. But as soon as Christine brought in that singular connection, I was stunned by the as-yet unseen consequences of it. If Nick found out that I was a drunk and that I'd gotten into a physical altercation with a stranger because of it, then I may very well have handed him everything that he needed to destroy our family, to enact his revenge for a decades-long conflict that he didn't have the sense or compassion to bow out of once and for all.

I'll be damned if I let that happen, I thought heatedly.

I shook my head; this was so much bigger than myself, "I'm going to fix this."

"You're going to stop drinking?"

"Yes, of course I am."

She sighed, and although she took a slight step closer to me, she still didn't appear ready to close the distance between us entirely, and my heart seized when she flinched away at my attempt to reach out to her; she wasn't looking for my reassurance then, but rather held her head high as she said, "I think you've gotten to the point that you need treatment, or therapy, or AA. Anything. But you need some kind of structure beyond just quitting. It isn't that simple."

"I've done therapy before, it doesn't - "

" - You need intensive therapy, if not rehab. I'm serious, this has escalated past what talk-therapy can do for you anymore."

I paused in the wake of her statement, another bout of panic overtaking my ability to see reason; the options that she'd presented to me then were terrifying, because the idea of entering any type of rehabilitation facility, of being locked up in even the most basic sense of the term, was nearly enough to bring me to my knees. I'd never be able to handle it. And moreover, I was thoroughly convinced by that point in my life that therapy just didn't work on me, that whatever methods used on me by former counselors were effective temporarily, but any success that I'd had after the fact was only a fluke in the long-run and nothing more meaningful. As a doctor, I certainly knew better than that, a fundamental part of me understood that mental healthcare - namely to the extent I'd required it - was a lifelong commitment to constant, mindful work, and that setbacks didn't guarantee forfeit altogether. But as an alcoholic with a staggering history of trauma to contend with alongside the drinking and addictive tendencies, the thought of going back into therapy stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't see the bigger picture. So when those very situations were seemingly my only route to recovery, I recoiled from them, murmuring unevenly in return, "I'm not sure if I can..."

"What do you mean, you're not sure?"

I shifted uncomfortably, and Rex nudged at my hand; steeling myself at the contact, I inhaled, "I'll stop drinking. I'll just...stop. I'll figure it out. But I can't manage therapy now, not on top of everything else."

"You can't be serious," she shook her head, her incredulous tone quickly giving way to exasperation, "Goddamnit, Erik, you can't just figure this out, you don't have the luxury of time!"

"Alright," I said, keeping my voice even and raising my hands in a placating gesture as I offered, if only for the sake of reorienting myself to the stance I was making, "I'll think about it."

"You have to think about saving your life?"

"Don't be so dramatic - "

" - I'm not being dramatic. You're an alcoholic, and this isn't your first relapse. If you don't do something now, there are only a few ways this can end for you, and none of them are good," she responded gravely; tears still shone in her eyes, and while she had done well to keep them at bay throughout our heated conversation, once again they threatened to fall, the deep brown of her irises alight with them as a thought seemingly occurred to her, and she added pleadingly, "And what about us? You've spent months lying to me, and that won't stop if you try to do this on your own. Do you have to think about saving our marriage? Our family?"

"I won't lie to you again, Christine. I swear."

"I don't know that."

"I'm telling you that right now. I don't need to go into therapy to keep a promise - "

" - You need professional help, bar none," she said sharply. But then she faltered, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to affect the strength that she had been working to maintain from the moment I'd come home, and I saw that struggle reflected in the way she weighed her words before she continued, "I told you a few years ago that I want you to be healthy, and I still want that for you...But I won't sit aside while you self-destruct. I'll support your recovery, but you have to do whatever's necessary for it, and if you can't, if you won't, then I won't stay here and watch you kill yourself."

"Christine, you can't - "

" - And Jo," she went on determinedly, ignoring my attempted disruption, "I don't want her to see you like this. I swear to God, Erik, this will not be a memory for her. So if you don't get some kind of treatment, some kind of help…" Here, she took a deep breath, "If you make me choose between you and our daughter, it'll be her. Every time."

"I don't want you to choose," I snapped, though the sudden bitterness in my demeanor was directed entirely at my own irrationality - I felt myself unraveling once more. But Christine was absolutely right to say what she had, to put our child above all else in this situation. I was making Josephine a casualty where it was imperative that she remain innocent; she still believed in Santa, for God's sake, still believed in the Good Fairies that her Grandpa Gene had so often talked about with her. She was too young to have her faith in her own father shaken, to witness his steady but certain collapse - she didn't deserve that. If not for myself, if not even for my wife, then I had to find sobriety again for the wellbeing of my daughter, and I had to do it the right way. Yet words escaped me in that moment of unwavering scrutiny and expectation, failed to let me adequately consider the options before me - to help Christine understand exactly what had brought about this hesitancy to begin with in response to what she was telling me - and I was frustrated with myself for being rendered so inarticulate when the stability of my life and my family's safety depended on my ability to see reason. Christine was making complete sense in her judgment, and there was no other way out of this than to follow her lead, so why couldn't I accept that?

Why couldn't I just fucking function?

Christine persisted, "We need to get you professional help."

Still, my thoughts raced backward, "It won't work!"

She stared at me, her features hard and considering, the span of time spent with her holding my gaze feeling both endless and echoing in fractured turns. Rex barked again, and too late I realized that I'd raised my voice, but Christine was already moving to step past me, her gait severe and undaunted, before I could apologize for another lapse in acceptable behavior. Therefore, fighting to catch up to everything that was happening, it didn't initially register to me that she was taking off her engagement ring and wedding band until she'd approached the fireplace, gently but deliberately setting the important pieces of jewelry on the mantle shelf in front of one of the smaller picture frames there, the decorative frame itself containing Josie's portrait-style photograph from the beginning of the school year. And all at once, whether that placement was by Christine's design or not, my entire world was narrowed to that juxtaposition, my wife and my daughter within my reach and forced into the center of my focus, yet so unimaginably distant just the same.

Her meaning was impossible to ignore or misunderstand - this was my ultimatum.

She began to turn away from me without another word, and only then did I touch her, clutching desperately for her hand before she could leave the room, "Christine, wait!"

"No! We're done here," she whirled to face me, wrenching her hand from mine as she did so, "You need to think about this, really think about this. Consider everything that's at stake, because hearing it from me obviously isn't enough for you."

Heart pounding and hands shaking and tears blinding me once again, I somehow found the will within myself to remain where she'd left me as she turned a final time and headed upstairs; the subsequent slamming of our bedroom door was a jolt to my system that I flinched away from. The insight to respect her need for space and follow her instructions warred with the instinct to pursue her and beg for forgiveness then and there, but ultimately, my waning dregs of reasonable thought won out over the appeal of my impulsive reactions. I had to believe that it was for the best that I stay put, that I do as I was told and think, because everything depended on my doing so. But I had to do it alone now; we were obviously getting nowhere in our discussion, ships passing again and again without meaning or a shred of hope for closure, and our years together had taught us both that, when every other measure had been exhausted, time in neutral corners was crucial under difficult circumstances.

Still, that understanding didn't make it any less painful to let her go.

~~oOo~~

This - whatever the fuck this could be said to be anymore - wasn't necessarily rock bottom for me yet, wasn't the proverbial end inevitably awaiting the pathetic drunk that I'd once again allowed myself to become. If nothing else, I had to at the very least keep telling myself that what I was experiencing now wasn't quite that singular brand of suffering. Rock bottom, as far as I knew, would most certainly be the unequivocal collapse and loss of everything, and that wasn't an exaggeration; it would be the culmination of a reality wherein I'd knowingly destroyed my family and my livelihood and anything we'd built that meant so much to me, to all of us. And it would be all because I'd been too weak and too stubborn and too afraid to turn away from the pull of addiction when so much depended on that strength and focus. But regardless of everything I'd done recently, regardless of everything that happened, I sensed that I wasn't there, not yet; and if I didn't hold tightly to that fact, that one glimpse of promise that everything would be alright, then I'm not sure if I would've been able to carry on with even the smallest semblance of resolve. This wasn't rock bottom, but it was close enough to inspire genuine fear in me. I was falling there fast, and the moment that Christine took off her rings - the heartache that flashed in her eyes then - served as the catalyst that finally spurred me to act.

When the dust settled and my thoughts cleared, I'd made up my mind for what I needed to do, and in that spirit, I called Nadir first, continuing to give Christine however much distance she needed in the meantime; after apologizing to my oldest friend as if my life depended on it - which, in many ways, it did - I then asked him for further guidance about how to move forward, what plan beyond what Christine had already outlined needed to be put into motion to set myself to rights again properly. He was still upset, unsurprisingly, but graciously accepted my remorse as sincere even so, and agreed to help me the moment I reached out, ready before I'd even completed my question with suggestions of his own. And while a spark of hesitance fought to hold on, my commitment to my decision was decidedly stronger. It was late evening by the time we finished our conversation, and I was sitting on the couch looking up the information he'd sent me. Josie would be staying one more night with the Khans, Rex was running outside, a well-deserved break from the stress of the day, and Willow had left her end table hideout in favor of sleeping in Josie's bedroom, and so I'd assumed that I would remain on my own for the rest of the night. As such, I was honestly surprised when I looked up to see Christine rounding the corner into the space from the stairs; by then, I'd been lost in the words on the tablet I held in my hands that glowed with websites from Nadir's earlier email.

She didn't speak initially, nor did I give her the chance to. Wordlessly, instead I passed the tablet to her in lieu of a greeting, allowing her a moment to glance over the page on the screen before giving it further context, "Nadir had to call in some favors, but he's looking for referrals to something called an intensive outpatient program. It's four days a week, three hours a session for eight weeks, and they do dialectic behavioral therapy in groups. I'm not thrilled with that part of it, but it's supposed to be effective for people like me," I explained, before adding in a measured tone, hoping to convey exactly how serious I was about what I was going to tell her, "And if that doesn't work, if I screw it up, I've given him permission to send me into inpatient treatment. I'm giving both of you permission. Full rehab, kicking and screaming if it comes down to it. Whatever it takes."

Nodding as I spoke - as the gravity of what I was saying settled in her mind - Christine sighed with unmasked relief before she set the tablet beside me and rushed into my arms, every move made so quickly that I nearly didn't catch her. And all at once she was straddling me there with her arms draped tightly around my shoulders, the position intimate and so beautifully familiar, but far from amourous just the same - we would find our way back to one another again, would reconcile with our bodies what speech alone couldn't express, but not tonight. Yet she did kiss me then, hard and deep and leaving me breathless, and the room spun with the significance of her lips meeting mine as I abandoned myself to the contact.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, for everything," I whispered ardently between kisses, holding her with as much fervor as she lent to me, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I love you so much," I continued firmly, searing her to me with one last lingering kiss before I pulled away once more, "I love you…"

Touching her forehead to mine, she responded softly, "I love you, Erik. Thank you."

We remained in that embrace for an immeasurable time, long after words were exchanged, but though with great reluctance to be apart after finally being able to touch her again, I stood eventually to go to the mantle across the room, carefully retrieving Christine's rings before returning to sit beside her. Lifting her left hand, my intentions clear, I replaced the emerald engagement ring and the wedding band with as much reverence as I had extended the first time I'd given each of them to her, saying quietly as I did so, "If you'll have me."

"Of course I will," she smiled, but then she added, her tone unwavering, "So long as you'll promise me that you're going to follow through with this new program, and if you have trouble with it, you'll ask for help before something like this happens again."

"I promise."

Another nod to demonstrate her acceptance; then, gesturing to her rings and evidently referring to taking them off earlier, she said sadly, "I had to do it. I'm sorry, I just - "

" - I know. Don't be sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for. I didn't give you any other choice, and nothing else would've gotten through to me. It had to be this way."

She sighed again, any other response unnecessary, all things considered, and paused another instant before she turned my hand over in hers, touching a distinct and solitary scar in my palm as she asked, "Do you remember the night you got this?"

I laughed humorlessly, "Of course I do."

Truly, there was no way that I wouldn't have remembered, though admittedly, it was rare that I thought about it in-depth anymore. But if I lived to be a hundred, I'd still never be able to erase the night that she was indicating, nor the events leading up to it - in my mind's eye, I recalled an exhausting day years ago working in the ER, unexpectedly losing that little girl Tamara after she'd been abducted and abused and forced to become a human-shield for her captor. Her death, the tragedy and unfairness of it, had absolutely shattered me, and I'd relapsed then just as I had following Gene's passing, required in turn to reveal my alcoholism to Christine when I'd had a bad reaction to mixing alcohol with my antidepressants that could have proven dangerous. I could almost hear the sound of the glass tumbler fracturing beneath my hand as I slammed it onto the countertop and screamed at her to leave the house, to leave me alone with the rage that was burning me alive - I could almost feel the sting of the whiskey in the gash left behind and the blood that flowed from the wound as my clouded mind fought to catch up to what I'd done. Christine nearly had left then, she'd told me as much outright, yet she'd found it within herself to stay, and everything had changed for us in the wake of that heated encounter. There would never be a day that I wouldn't be grateful for her incredible bravery in the face of my weakness.

But where my thoughts on the incident reflected bittersweet gratitude, hers had taken a darker path, and with that, she pulled me back to the present, "That was the last time, before now, that you've scared me so badly," she traced the scar on my palm carefully, breaking eye-contact in favor of looking at its blurring edges, "When you drink, you're impulsive. Destructive. That's what I see when I look at this scar," she said, before stalling as she weighed her words, her voice close to breaking as she admitted, "Not knowing where you were last night scared me to death. You were so upset when you left the house, I had no idea if…if you'd lost control and done something that you couldn't take back..." she trailed off, returning her gaze to mine and brushing her hand at the scar on my neck - one that, unlike the mark on my palm, was considerably deeper, and hadn't faded nearly as much over time, instead serving as a constant reminder of the suicide attempt that I'd barely survived. It was upsetting to learn that my actions the night before had led her to believe that I would be desperate enough to try to take my own life again, yet unsurprising altogether - she was correct in her assessment that I was both impulsive and destructive at my worst, the overlying circumstances ample proof of the existence of those elements in me. But still, I hated that I'd put her through so much unnecessary fear in the first place, especially when I had already brought so much damage.

"I'll never do that to you again, Christine, I swear."

"I know, I just...I wish I could've seen this coming. You've been at this for months, and so much makes sense now, but how could I have missed it?"

"Because I wanted you to miss it. That's alcoholism, it's…" I shrugged helplessly, at a sudden loss for just how to explain the shadowed, insidious forms that the disease takes. But honestly, there was no way to reduce alcoholism and everything that it involves into quantifiable terms, and so I settled on the simplest to relate to, the most relevant, "It's incredibly easy to hide in plain sight. And then when it becomes obvious, it's usually too late."

"And you're not even out of the worst of it yet."

"No, I'm not."

She sighed, considering me for a time, seemingly working something out in her mind before finally asking, "Do you have a stash?"

I nodded, unsure of the direction she was so abruptly taking, but trusting that she'd reveal her purpose soon enough, "In my car."

She had me lead her out to the driveway, and show her exactly where I'd hidden my whiskey and several bottles of soda inside the spare tire in my trunk - a location that I was certain she'd have little if any reason to explore on her own without my knowing beforehand to intercept. Jack and Coke was always my go-to, I'd muttered awkwardly, filling the cold air in my nervousness at my renewed shame as I rifled through the space to ensure that all of the alcohol was found and removed. Once that task was completed, we went back into the house and straight to the kitchen, where once again I presented the whiskey to Christine; she'd informed me by then that we were going to pour it down the sink, which I'd accepted immediately, knowing how much of a risk it was to have it nearby, to have it accessible in any manner. It wasn't lost on me that this is exactly what she had done the last time I'd relapsed, and so I assumed that she would take the bottle and make the symbolic gesture herself as she had before. But when I tried to hand it over to her, she just shook her head, "It has to be you. You're not alone in this, but this is your fight, and you have to be accountable for it."

Another nod, and I tilted the bottle - the glass a constant weight in my hand that was too familiar for my linking - pouring until it was entirely empty and rinsing it out for good measure.

"Back to hell where you belong, devil's nectar," I said when I was finished, exaggerating my accent in order to summon some levity and ease at least a portion of the tension that the moment had drawn out, and I was relieved when Christine laughed softly; but when I turned to face her directly again, we were both serious once more as I asked, "What happens now?"

"Now you have to recover," she said, before adding pointedly, "Again."