Lullabies and Nightmares
Part Four
Authors Note: Thanks for all the great reviews! They're my favorite part of writing fan fiction. =) That and the actual writing of course. Hell, I like every part of it. Oh, this part is rated R because of implied violence. Please continue reading and reviewing!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do And I blame you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The room was small and cheap. There were cheesy paintings of sunsets and beautiful forests covering the aged white paint on the walls and the bed spread felt as course as sand paper. The pillows were small and barely worth the effort of fluffing. The only other furniture in the room was a long dresser with drawers, bare except for a copy of the Holy Bible and a phone book for the area.
It was the best motel around for sixty dollars a night, and Rachel could barely afford that. But it was shelter from the cold weather and a place to keep the few belongings she'd managed to take with her from St. Louis. These consisted of a few pairs of jeans, shirts, and her walkman containing her favorite Linkin Park CD.
Then of course she'd taken her watch, the one her father had given her so long ago. But that was gone now.
But she still had the pearls. She'd managed to hold onto them for this long without trading them for a couple hits of coke. They were her most special possession. They were the pearls her father had given her only two years before, and she carried them with her everywhere.
Now here she was. Sitting next to the small table, a syringe filled with heroin in her hand. It was as easy as inserting the needle and pushing now. Then she could escape forever. Then she could forget about the pearls and her father and the one doctor who had even tried to save her today.
Save her in the way she needed to be anyway.
She remembered the look on his face when he'd handed her the bag. He hadn't given up on her like everyone else. He'd merely paused in his pursuit. Only a few feet away was the bag containing the condoms and the scrap of paper with the phone number and name: John Carter. He'd said for her to call him. He'd said he would help her.
But what was she thinking. There was no help for her. She'd seen enough junkies in her days of visiting her dad at the hospital. They'd come in and get clean, then they'd be back in the ER two days later for treatment of an overdose. She'd vowed many times as a child that she would never be one of those people. Even when she'd started smoking pot and doing ecstasy she'd insisted that she had it under control. Then she'd met AJ, and everything changed.
So here she again. A syringe full of heroin and a belt around her arm. She felt the depression and fear hanging over her head and she knew it was time to escape. She put the pearl necklace around her neck and plunged the needle into her skin.
The next few minutes went in slow motion, or were they hours? She remembered the needle dropping from her hand, herself falling back against the bed. She remembered the loud knocking at the door. Where was the door? She couldn't tell anymore. Soon there was somebody in the room. There was yelling, shouting. Somebody grabbed her arm and pulled her away from her comfort spot. But all that mattered right now was the feeling of drugs pouring through her veins.
Through the haze she could make out a few words.
Whore. Slut. Pay back.
Then she felt hands on her body and the feeling of pain as her world faded to black and red.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He jumped up from the bed with a start and shivers wracked his body. Feelings of pain and fear subsided as he took in his surroundings. He was in bed, alone. His bedroom was dark, but familiar. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He continued to shiver. It was then he noticed that his entire body was in fact soaked in perspiration. He sighed and slowly moved out of bed. He paused on the edge for a moment, holding his face in his hands.
The images were still there. So real. It was like it was happening all over again. She was there again. She had that smile on her face that she always had when she'd come into his room at night. She'd sit on the edge of the bed first, waiting for him to wake from a sound sleep. Then she'd slowly begin touching him, kissing him. He hated it. The nausea was unbearable.
Then of course she'd straddle him and proceed in her usual activities. He'd count the minutes until it was over, until he could go back to sleep and pretend that it was all just a bad dream.
Shaking the painful memories out of his head, Carter headed for the bathroom. He removed his shirt and began looking for a clean dry one to replace it with. He bent down to check the hamper and sorted through the various unwashed items. It was then he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror.
The scars on his back. They never left him, always haunting him.
He turned quickly and grabbed the first t-shirt he could find. He slipped it over his head and headed out to the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator and sorted through the items until he found the milk carton. He removed it and drank straight from the spout. There was no reason to use a glass, no one else drank it. He wiped his mouth with his hand and set the milk back in its proper spot.
He moved to the kitchen table and sat on the edge. He chewed his lip as he stared pointlessly at an empty wall straight ahead. The wall was like a canvas, and he could picture his entire life being painted on it. He saw his childhood, med school, his residency, his graduation, all the way to the present. To that afternoon, with Rachel.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could only imagine where the young girl was now. Wherever she was he was sure she was stoned. That's where he would have been a few years back. Now he was sober, and it wasn't that he wasn't proud, but he wasn't happy either. Sobriety doesn't bring happiness. It brings a chance for change and improvement. It brings life back, but it doesn't mean it will be a happy life.
This was not something he'd learned in AA or Atlanta. This was something he'd learned on his own, a life lesson.
Life can be bad with or without drugs and alcohol. It wasn't something his sponsors would like to hear from him, but it was the cold hard truth. It was a truth that made him believe that Rachel had a hard road ahead of her, if she even stepped onto the road that is.
It was his job to point her in the direction of the road. It was her job to follow it. But he wasn't finished giving directions just yet. Her mother and Elizabeth may have given up on her, but he hadn't. He didn't intend to either. Mark Greene never gave up on somebody he loved. If it weren't for Mark Greene, Carter knew he would have been dead long ago. He never would have found the road.
He swallowed and started back towards the bedroom. He stopped and the doorway and stared at the bed before him. He couldn't sleep there. Not tonight. The creaking and position brought back too many bag memories, nightmares. The couch would do until he could move the bed to another wall. Maybe he could face it away from the door. His bed at home had always faced towards the door. Maybe that would help him sleep. Maybe.
He took some blankets and pillows and headed for the couch.
TBC
Part Four
Authors Note: Thanks for all the great reviews! They're my favorite part of writing fan fiction. =) That and the actual writing of course. Hell, I like every part of it. Oh, this part is rated R because of implied violence. Please continue reading and reviewing!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do And I blame you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The room was small and cheap. There were cheesy paintings of sunsets and beautiful forests covering the aged white paint on the walls and the bed spread felt as course as sand paper. The pillows were small and barely worth the effort of fluffing. The only other furniture in the room was a long dresser with drawers, bare except for a copy of the Holy Bible and a phone book for the area.
It was the best motel around for sixty dollars a night, and Rachel could barely afford that. But it was shelter from the cold weather and a place to keep the few belongings she'd managed to take with her from St. Louis. These consisted of a few pairs of jeans, shirts, and her walkman containing her favorite Linkin Park CD.
Then of course she'd taken her watch, the one her father had given her so long ago. But that was gone now.
But she still had the pearls. She'd managed to hold onto them for this long without trading them for a couple hits of coke. They were her most special possession. They were the pearls her father had given her only two years before, and she carried them with her everywhere.
Now here she was. Sitting next to the small table, a syringe filled with heroin in her hand. It was as easy as inserting the needle and pushing now. Then she could escape forever. Then she could forget about the pearls and her father and the one doctor who had even tried to save her today.
Save her in the way she needed to be anyway.
She remembered the look on his face when he'd handed her the bag. He hadn't given up on her like everyone else. He'd merely paused in his pursuit. Only a few feet away was the bag containing the condoms and the scrap of paper with the phone number and name: John Carter. He'd said for her to call him. He'd said he would help her.
But what was she thinking. There was no help for her. She'd seen enough junkies in her days of visiting her dad at the hospital. They'd come in and get clean, then they'd be back in the ER two days later for treatment of an overdose. She'd vowed many times as a child that she would never be one of those people. Even when she'd started smoking pot and doing ecstasy she'd insisted that she had it under control. Then she'd met AJ, and everything changed.
So here she again. A syringe full of heroin and a belt around her arm. She felt the depression and fear hanging over her head and she knew it was time to escape. She put the pearl necklace around her neck and plunged the needle into her skin.
The next few minutes went in slow motion, or were they hours? She remembered the needle dropping from her hand, herself falling back against the bed. She remembered the loud knocking at the door. Where was the door? She couldn't tell anymore. Soon there was somebody in the room. There was yelling, shouting. Somebody grabbed her arm and pulled her away from her comfort spot. But all that mattered right now was the feeling of drugs pouring through her veins.
Through the haze she could make out a few words.
Whore. Slut. Pay back.
Then she felt hands on her body and the feeling of pain as her world faded to black and red.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He jumped up from the bed with a start and shivers wracked his body. Feelings of pain and fear subsided as he took in his surroundings. He was in bed, alone. His bedroom was dark, but familiar. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He continued to shiver. It was then he noticed that his entire body was in fact soaked in perspiration. He sighed and slowly moved out of bed. He paused on the edge for a moment, holding his face in his hands.
The images were still there. So real. It was like it was happening all over again. She was there again. She had that smile on her face that she always had when she'd come into his room at night. She'd sit on the edge of the bed first, waiting for him to wake from a sound sleep. Then she'd slowly begin touching him, kissing him. He hated it. The nausea was unbearable.
Then of course she'd straddle him and proceed in her usual activities. He'd count the minutes until it was over, until he could go back to sleep and pretend that it was all just a bad dream.
Shaking the painful memories out of his head, Carter headed for the bathroom. He removed his shirt and began looking for a clean dry one to replace it with. He bent down to check the hamper and sorted through the various unwashed items. It was then he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror.
The scars on his back. They never left him, always haunting him.
He turned quickly and grabbed the first t-shirt he could find. He slipped it over his head and headed out to the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator and sorted through the items until he found the milk carton. He removed it and drank straight from the spout. There was no reason to use a glass, no one else drank it. He wiped his mouth with his hand and set the milk back in its proper spot.
He moved to the kitchen table and sat on the edge. He chewed his lip as he stared pointlessly at an empty wall straight ahead. The wall was like a canvas, and he could picture his entire life being painted on it. He saw his childhood, med school, his residency, his graduation, all the way to the present. To that afternoon, with Rachel.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could only imagine where the young girl was now. Wherever she was he was sure she was stoned. That's where he would have been a few years back. Now he was sober, and it wasn't that he wasn't proud, but he wasn't happy either. Sobriety doesn't bring happiness. It brings a chance for change and improvement. It brings life back, but it doesn't mean it will be a happy life.
This was not something he'd learned in AA or Atlanta. This was something he'd learned on his own, a life lesson.
Life can be bad with or without drugs and alcohol. It wasn't something his sponsors would like to hear from him, but it was the cold hard truth. It was a truth that made him believe that Rachel had a hard road ahead of her, if she even stepped onto the road that is.
It was his job to point her in the direction of the road. It was her job to follow it. But he wasn't finished giving directions just yet. Her mother and Elizabeth may have given up on her, but he hadn't. He didn't intend to either. Mark Greene never gave up on somebody he loved. If it weren't for Mark Greene, Carter knew he would have been dead long ago. He never would have found the road.
He swallowed and started back towards the bedroom. He stopped and the doorway and stared at the bed before him. He couldn't sleep there. Not tonight. The creaking and position brought back too many bag memories, nightmares. The couch would do until he could move the bed to another wall. Maybe he could face it away from the door. His bed at home had always faced towards the door. Maybe that would help him sleep. Maybe.
He took some blankets and pillows and headed for the couch.
TBC