Session 46

Spike's fingers touched his scalp as he ran them through his hair, avoiding the mostly healed incisions. After an uncounted period of time confined to bandages, it felt so good to be free of the damned things. Not only that, but he sat in the sunlight pouring through the window. If he leaned close enough to the glass pane it was easier to ignore the bars obstructing the view, a vague sense of normalcy. That was precisely why he had crawled up onto the wide ledge and sat sideways on it. His bare toes touched, the top set curled over the other, much like he'd done as a child. Elbows leaned on his drawn up knees he stared longingly at Crystal Bay's sparkling bay waters. Ships drifted in and out of the port, soaring through the air.

So free and light as they flew through the atmosphere … like they taunted him. From here he couldn't pick out the Bebop anywhere.

Resting his chin on his crossed arms Spike searched for the proper word to describe his current existence … heavy … listless … muddled. The corner of his eyes caught his in-patient bracelet made of thick plastic, impossible for him to remove. He understood why. After an untold passage of days, probably weeks, he caught the name of the joint in a conversation between the staff. Even though he was in typical hospital pjs, this wasn't a regular hospital—not by any means. Though he desired nothing more than to be released from this asylum … no matter what he did he couldn't find the energy to do more than sit around staring into the distance. He could speak freely now, but he struggled to find anything to even say. Tendrils of a nameless fear drifted on the edges of his mind … though of late the medication cocktail he was on assured a dreamless sleep. That should have removed the threat. Yet the anticipation remained … taut like a wire.

It was hard to believe he was stable … in fact, he didn't truly believe he was.

He'd hoped getting a bit of sunlight would help lift his mood … but it did little as the proverbial storm clouds shadowed him.

A knock on his open door turned his head. Damian offered a smile. "Hey, good to see you out of bed. Did you get up there yourself?"

Spike nodded, but he couldn't quite summon a smile. His chin remained resting on his folded arms.

Slowly Damian came over to the wide window and sat sideways on the ledge, facing Spike. "Not too bad of a view from here, is it." After a long silent pause he held up a tablet. "I have the results of the scan from earlier today. Thought you might be interested."

Only vaguely. Spike's eyes drifted toward the color gradient on the screen. Frankly he was a bit tired of talking about the state of his brain.

Shifting between the two scans Damian pointed. "This is what we started with when you first came in. You see this part here? That's where the worst of the problem was. This region was far too active and shouldn't be bridging between these two areas. Now this one is today's scan. See? No sign of the neurological short, and things are a lot calmer, as they should be. Great news, this is confirmation that we won't need to do another infusion."

Spike nodded before shifting his idle gaze back out to the bay staring at nothing at all. There wasn't a point in trying to locate the Bebop, but for some reason he couldn't convince his eyes of that.

A few minutes passed before Damian sighed. "There's a group session later today. You know you can come out and join the others anytime you want. Might be good to start talking about what happened a bit. I won't push … but the truth is, on good conscience, I can't let you leave here until you start showing an effort to work through things."

There it was again. The same thing he had heard over the past days. But the gears ground to halt every time. The words refused to come regardless of who it was … Damian, Jet or Faye. He had even tried to leave his room the other day only to stand trapped in the doorway for who knew how long simply staring at the floor tiles. Paralyzed.

Such simple steps to obtain his release … and yet he hesitated, like a toddler unable to figure out how to take the first one.

"Don't rush things, Spike. If you need more time, take it. Just know that you don't have to stay strictly in this room anymore. And who knows, a change of scenery might help." His footsteps left him alone.

Stay in the room. Spike's eyes clenched for a moment, his grip tightened. A padded room, straps binding him tight, screaming … endless screams of rage and terror in a never-ending torrent! Back then he'd had no choice. He knew that back in that time he'd been living a nightmare. The figures attacked him relentlessly, not just random shadowy figures, but real people from the past. People who had lost their lives because of him. His chest burned, he fought to catch his breath. Thankfully there were no monitors now that he was stable or he knew they'd be going off!

I don't want to stay! Dammit. I want to get out of here … I want to go … home.

Slowly Spike found himself staring at the open doorway leading out to a common room where voices lingered. All he had to do to start … was walk out the door.

Two silent days later, after breakfast Spike ambled out when no one in particular was watching. Sitting on a couch in the common room, he stared at his hand on his knee. In this ward at least a dozen patients wandered around the locked down cul de sac of rooms. Most rather ragged looking men in various degrees of sanity—none of them actually qualifying. Two were engaged in their own version of chess, the pieces moving at random but the players didn't seem to care. Another man with a gap-toothed smile covered in tattoos drew on his skin with a set of colorful markers. One man preached to a potted tree in the corner from an upside-down dictionary as he recreated quotes from the bible—not any that Spike recalled ever hearing before. He was fairly certain they didn't have cell phones and social media back then.

Still … the man talking to the tree reminded him vaguely of Jet with his bonsai. How many times had he walked in on a conversation? His hand flexed on his knee. All he had to do now was find the will to start talking and he could go home. Just open up about the burdens of his past. It shouldn't be that hard. But the mere thought of it choked him up.

Maybe a bit of meditation would help.

Deep breaths … clear the mind … just ease into it … too much tension … relax the hand. Why is the hand not relaxing? Why am I not relaxing? Why am I just getting tenser? Seriously? This is easy shit! I mastered this when I was twelve! Just relax, dammit! Fuckfuckfuck! Wait … what's that weird thumping noise?

He cracked an eye open.

A man with wispy-white hair hop-shuffled in front of Spike and cackled with delight. He reached into the tied front of his hospital shirt and pulled out a plain cardboard tube. Pressing the empty toilet paper tube into Spike's hand he declared, "Happy Easter!"

For the longest moment Spike stared at the tube, turning it around in his hand. "Uhh Easter … isn't this supposed to be an egg?"

The man giggled, all smiles. "But it is an egg, my boy. A mighty fine colorful one. My best work yet!" He took Spike's other hand and shook it. "Name's Duffy. I'm the Easter bunny!"

"Spike … and I'm not?" That was awkward to say the least, and he began to formulate an exit strategy of how to get to his room, but Duffy blocked any feasible effort.

"Hmmph, would you look at yourself? Who put sour jellies in your basket? You gots to look at the glass half full, boy."

Tossing the tube over his shoulder, Spike heaved a sigh. "Glass? Can't be half empty or half full. The only glass I ever had was a shot glass … I shattered that a long time ago."

Without any preamble, Duffy rammed his ear against Spike's chest. The moment he tried to protest, Duffy hushed him with a hand. "Naw, your tickers still a tickin'. That means you still gotta glass. What happen, someone piss in it?"

"Huuuuh?" Spike edged further back onto the couch as Duffy sat up with a sly grin.

"Hehehe, it's what some folks do. Piss in other people's glasses when they ain't lookin'. Seen a lot of folks that happened to, same sour face." He pointed and chuckled. "Up to you to fill it right … or not, if you wanna be a sour puss."

One of the nurses, touched Duffy's shoulder and rattled a paper cup, colorful pills inside.

Instantly Duffy leapt to his feet. "Jellies! Can we hide them?"

"Not today. You need to take these ones. Come on, let's go to your room and you can play me the jelly song on your keyboard." Arm in arm they approached a room decorated with colorful childlike drawings that reminded Spike vaguely of Ed's pictures.

Damian leaned over the back of the couch watching. "I see you've met the eternally positive Duffy."

Bemused, Spike nodded, unable to look away as the sounds of a toy piano and off key singing split the air. "What happened to that guy?"

"Duffy wasn't always so sunshine and rainbows. He went to prison after a stint of B&Es. Wanted to be the big man on campus in the lockup, picked a fight with the wrong guy who knocked his lights out so severely he never came out of his alternate reality. He's been this way ever since. Guards were worried in the pen he'd get eaten alive, so they transferred him here. Truth is, technically he finished his sentence three years ago. There's no way he can function in the real world. Not with his brain damage."

Spike shook his head. The opposite of him, stuck in a world of nightmares. And still … to be eternally that perky? He shivered. Which was worse?

"You should come to the group session. Duffy tells some of the most amusing stories."

"I'm more interested in reality."

With a shrug, Damian pushed off the back of the couch. "You'll find there are lots of perspectives. Anyway, glad to you out and about."

That was less than helpful. Settling back into a quiet sulk, Spike gave up on trying to force meditation and merely watched the others ambling around until a shadow cast over him. He looked up to discover Jet with his hands in his pockets. "Yo, Spike. I missed you out here. Went to your room where you usually were."

"Uhh yeah." He pulled his knee up to his chest. "Thought I'd try the couch … you know … maybe it might help, even though it's not the one."

"Has it?" His voice remained low and gruff, a stale edge to it.

Spike shrugged. "I don't know. Too early to tell. I mean, I haven't fallen asleep on it yet."

Passing close by, a man with a tattoo of a lizard trying to eat his left eye started to swear mid sentence before just stopping and striking a pose similar to Captain Morgan on the rum bottle. After about thirty seconds of both Spike and Jet watching him imitate the logo he broke the pose, stuck a finger in his mouth and popped his cheek before walking off.

Jet pointed at him and whispered. "Hold on … didn't we tag the bounty on that guy?"

Spike nodded. "On TJ, shortly after we first met."

"Oh yeah, that was the guy dealing that drug … " his finger bounced up and down, eyes to the ceiling in thought, " … snowflake?"

"Ask me that shit turned him into a snowflake."

Jet tapped a hand on the side of his leg, eyes restless, not that Spike could blame him. Unpredictable is the word of the day, every day. After all, this is a place filled with crazy people … myself included.

Clearing his throat, Jet pulled his other hand from his pocket. "Faye passed the message that you wanted this. Something about it might be helpful?" In his palm lay an old scuffed up red poker chip.

The moment Spike laid his eyes on it, a shiver traveled up his spine. Painstakingly he plucked it up and turned it in his fingers, studying the edges. This wasn't the same chip from his youth, but as before he doubted that would matter. He shut his eyes. The one from before had met an untimely end due to Spike's unfettered temper, it had suffered a gunshot through the center of it, snapping it in two. The current of memories whipped up into a slurry by the contact alone.

Spike pressed his empty palm to his forehead, breathing slowly, trying not to be swept away.

"You ok?" Notes of concern entered Jet's voice as he knelt down. "Talk to me, Spike."

I want to … but it doesn't make sense yet. I need to sort it first. To find the words. Threads that when I try to grasp them … no … not threads—like the bullets stacked in a tower on a kitchen table, touch one and they all come tumbling down. Gah! I can't sort it out! I'm not ready.

"Dammit Spike!" He tensed his jaw. "You're keeping it all in again!"

"Jet … " he hated how timid his voice was, " … I need a bit more time. Please, don't push. This is hard enough for me to handle." As he shifted, his hand brushed against his chest, coming down on the raised edges of the surgical scar beneath his shirt. Unable to stop himself, Spike lifted the hem of the shirt up and stared at the puckered inverted V below his ribs. The sight of it smacked him hard. The double edged sword—how he craved a stiff drink to dull the agitation, and yet his guts twisted at the thought of what that vice had done to him. A reminder …

Faye's declaration brought his hands up to his temples. No scar removal until you learn better coping mechanisms. You have to face this, Spike.

His hand trembled, the plastic poker chip pressed up against his head. When and where had it all started? How had it all unraveled into a pit of mind-numbing despair?

"Spike, buddy? Look at me." Jet's hands gripped his shoulders as Spike snapped his eyes open unaware of how long he'd been circling the drain. "You were muttering, not making a whole lot of sense. I almost had them go get Damian."

Too much, too much too soon, the torrent threatened to rip him away. Rising to his feet, he waved over his shoulder. "Thanks for bringing this … I need to lie down for a bit. Really tired."

That was an understatement. Back in his room, he flopped down on the bed and burrowed into the covers as if it were some cocoon that could miraculously metamorphosize his ass out of this muddle. Half closed eyes stared at the identification bracelet and the chip in his fingers.

One memory at a time. Take it slow. Find the source and deal with whatever the fuck it is. This can't be that hard. Right?

Spike didn't know when he'd fallen asleep. Just that he hadn't gotten very far before he had. Out in the common room Duffy's enthusiastic voice carried through the door … Damian must be holding the group session. Greeeeeat.

"Then I hippy hopped down the bunny trail … boing boing, with my eggs in my basket."

A few eggs shy in that one's basket. Grabbing his pillow, Spike intended to ram it over his head … but the chip plunked on the mattress in front of him. Red on white … like blood. Up on one elbow, he studied it, turning the plastic over in the twilight from the window. It haunted him, a simple piece of plastic.

With a groan, he pushed up to his bare feet and padded across the floor, lingering in the doorway as he gazed at the crazed men sitting in their talking circle. Damian glanced around to them all as Duffy sat back down. "Alright, and who would like to go next?"

It didn't escape Spike as the doctor covertly side-eyed him from across the room, pausing ever so slightly. An empty chair on his room's side of the group, waiting for him as everyone else was there. The impossible weight of the poker chip in his loose fist.

One of the chess players began, "I didn't mean to do it … it's just that night I lost my temper … "

Spike didn't even notice it happened, one silent step at a time he crossed the room over the course of the story. He knew he wasn't the only one not fully listening. Damian's silent excitement simmered below the surface of his glances as Spike crossed the threshold and soundlessly sat down, turning the poker chip in his restless fingers.

The eyes shifted to his new presence … an intrusion on the group. He remained locked in silence, his own eyes idly watching the foil shimmer appear and disappear in the rhythmic turning. Each flip spoke to him of a pull of the trigger, a strike of the fist … a blood deep betrayal. The blind cocksure fool he used to be … until he concealed the plastic in a white-knuckled fist.

Damian knelt before him, the chairs around them all empty. A soft smile on his face. "I'm glad you finally made it out here."

"I … ," he looked around frantically, where had everyone gone? "I didn't say anything."

"Most don't their first time. Stepping up is one of the hardest parts. That alone is an achievement. It didn't surprise me at all when you zoned out. You're probably tired of hearing it, but this takes time. It's just us now, the others have gone off to bed. Do you want to talk, just the two of us?"

For a long interval Spike considered it, studying the shadows outside the night dark windows. But ultimately his eyes closed and he shook his head.

Damian patted his knee. "It's alright. One day it will come, when you are ready. Get some sleep, things will look better in the morning."

The sentiment was nice … but in the morning a severe thunderstorm rolled through. Spike covered his head with his pillow to block out the pounding of the hail against the windowpane … poker chip still in hand.

See You Space Cowboy