Chapter 4: Sweet and Tender Hooligans

A/N: I'm thinking of including some more flashbacks in these upcoming chapters, especially for Fitz who in this story we know relatively little about. I hope you guys enjoy that! Also I realised that my formatting wasn't translating on the website, so I'm trying something different.

"Today we're going to be discussing guilt. Why do we feel guilty? How do we manage guilt? So for a moment, I would like you to think about something you feel guilty about. Could be a specific event, could be a series of events, big or small I want you to think about moments of guilt. Then we'll come together as a group and discuss, okay?"

The group therapist wasn't the so called Eli Fitz would be seeing later that day, instead it was a short, tubby woman whose name he had already forgotten. She wasn't old, at least, if she was you couldn't tell by looking at her but she seemed stern, lacking that gentleness Clare held at all times even when frustrated and angry. She seemed fine, whatever, but he always hated group therapy. It's always the same old same old each time and everyone leaves feeling no better than they started. Or at least, he never felt any better. Thinking about all the guilt he had wasn't important to him, why look back on the past anyway? It's done and he can't change that.

"Alright, now that we've had some time to think. I want to go round the circle and hear a little bit from everyone. Now remember, this is a safe place. We won't judge you here. So I want everyone to contribute."

Going round the circle a chain of similar and occurring guilt came up, many people felt guilty about severing ties with their families and partners, stealing money and valuables off of them to feed their habit, some felt guilty about the pain they caused others, physical and mental. However, once it stopped at Fitz, that chain was broken.

"I feel guilty about the fact that I have to listen to everyone's personal shit which I don't think I have the right to know anything about or if I'm being honest, want to know anything about."

"That isn't a valid response Mr. Fitzgerald, by joining this group session you agree that some privacy might be revoked. But only how much you feel comfortable with. Note I said the guilt could be small, maybe you felt guilty for stealing a pen off of a friend once. People felt as if they could discuss their guilt, and you are making it a lot harder for everyone else. So please, Mr. Fitzgerald perhaps you could contribute something properly."

"I guess I feel guilty for stabbing that drug dealer, whatever."

The circle continued as normal after his little interruption. Finally everyone had said their piece and all the guilt was out in the open. Literally. The therapist had been writing everything everyone had said out loud down, except for his first statement however. He supposed he should feel offended that his guilt wasn't considered proper enough, but he wasn't going to lie to himself. He just hated being in this stupid circle and didn't want to hear about the shit other people had to deal with. He had his own problems to deal with. Like the nausea pooling in his stomach, threatening him that if he even moved an inch, bile would escape his body.

"Now. We need a volunteer to work through their guilt. Hmm… well Fitz, since you seemed so opposed to hearing other patients' issues, how about we discuss yours? Stand up will you."

"Please, I can't. I don't feel well. I think I might puke if I move."

"That's what they all say, I've heard every excuse in the book Mr. Fitzgerald. Now you're standing up."

She grabbed a hold of his shoulders and tugged him up to his feet, causing him to stumble then violently vomit all across her legs and heels. Brown sludge with little oats from their breakfast still half formed covered the floor as well. The smell made the other patients move as far away as they could manage. It was absolutely rotten like a garbage bin infested with rats. It made her gag and retch.

"I think today's session is over."

"How do you feel?"

It was the first time Fitz had tried a drug other than weed and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. The benzo coursing through his system had kicked in in about twenty minutes, and he felt sick. His head hurt, he was tired, he could feel his heart trying to escape from his chest, it was beating that fast. However, he felt calm. He could barely form any negative thoughts in his head. Floating, floating in a sea of fuzzy haze, like sitting on a cartoon cloud.

"Dude this is whack. My brain is so fucking fuzzy."

A loud snort, then a loud chuckle left the mouth of the half formed figure. Who was it who gave him this pill all these years ago? Some dick totally aware of how addictive the tiny pills were. Someone who knew you could only take them for a short time before your body craved them. Yelled out for the sweet hazy sensation, got used to the physical affects, begging to be sedated because the opposite was so much worse. The same dick he had watch quit cold turkey and die from a seizure.

"Yeah, you'll get used to it."

"Fitzgerald. You didn't answer the question. What made you start abusing prescription medication?"

"I don't know, I guess a mate got me into it and then by that point, you know, I couldn't exactly stop."

Fitz wished at this point that he was back in group therapy, and that was saying something. This Eli dude made him feel uncomfortable. His piercing eyes seemed to bore right into his head, almost as if the man could somehow read his thoughts if he stared hard enough. That's why he had decided to stare out the window, unable to look at Eli any longer. Or the room they sat in. The place was a Hot Topic disguised as a therapist's office. Skulls sat on every shelf, and books by Edgar Allen Poe and Chuck Palahniuk sat in between DSM manuals. Just how old was this guy? It looked like some edgy teenager's room rather than a medical professional's.

"How did this impact your life? Did it ruin any relationships you had? How did the people around you take your drug abuse?"

"I'm kicking you out. You're no fucking son of mine anyway. You're a pest. A fucking junkie pest. Piss off."

Scattered all outside his front door was everything Fitz owned, which at this point was shite all. Habits are expensive, and it was all worthless to him personally. His step-dad kicking him out wasn't really a surprise either, seeing as the man just saw him as a punching bag that may occasionally fight back. And it wasn't like his darling step-brother gave two shits anyway. He didn't have anyone standing in his corner, so he might as well leave without a fuss.

"Fuck you anyway, I don't want to live with your drunk ass anyway."

The rest of the week was spent hopping from couch to couch. Staying for the night, then bailing the next day. He didn't want to depend on anyone for too long, that was until Monica came into his life. She was a dealer who hated getting off to anything harder than caffeine, he never even saw her smoke a joint or anything. But she took a liking to him, and gave him discounts on her shit. It wasn't exactly prescription pills, his favourite choice of getting high. Cocaine didn't make him so drowsy, but it also didn't stop the shitty thoughts. It was better than being sober though and that's what really mattered.

Where was Monica? When was the last time he saw her?

"Yeah, I guess I don't have any family or friends. Whatever."