Disclaimer: Aaron Sorkin owns them, not me. If you want to pay for this, pay him, you fool.
Second Wind
by BJ Garrett
I was drowning in a bitter/sweet brown nothingness. I felt it sweep me down and down and close over me--oblivion, finally. I closed my eyes, put my hands under my cheek, and slipped deeper into the womb-like comfort of the void.
And I slept for what felt like eternity but was really only days.
The phone rang a hundred times and I didn't hear it. The buzzer chimed every second, and I didn't hear it.
I think maybe I died for a while in those days, and his frantic voice woke me from death.
He saved me, and that was the end of it.
"You can't do this forever. One day I won't get the feeling that you're not okay and come running."
I know.
"You could have died."
I knew that when I opened the bottle of Southern Comfort. And the bottle of Valium.
"You need to go away for a while, Leo. It's the best thing."
I know. But I won't.
"You have to."
I won't leave you.
"You're no good to anybody like this. Get your ass out of here."
How can I go? What will people say? Where will I go? I hang around to protect you, and I can't even take care of myself. I even fail at suicide.
"What did you say?"
Dammit.
"Did you do it on purpose, Leo?"
What can I say?
"That's it. I'm done with you. I'm tired of trying to pull you up and never getting a second of help from you. I won't say I don't care anymore, but I will say that you've taxed my compassion to the depths. You do whatever you want, and when you're clean and sober, call me. When you've done for yourself what you keep trying to do for me, call me."
Don't do this to me.
"What? Did you hear me, McGarry?"
Yes.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Goodbye. It was fun while it lasted. Don't refuse my euology, it would make Jenny very upset.
"For God's sake. Don't talk like that."
Don't leave me.
"Okay. Goodbye. I mean it, don't call until you've cleaned up your act."
The door is closed. I'm alone. There's no one left to care about me. I've driven everyone away, and without a word of protest from any of them.
I guess they never cared to begin with.
On my side, looking out the window, I tug at the catheter in my hand, wanting the machines to stop whirring and make that horrible buzzing sound. I'd like to hear it before it happens for real.
Night.
Restlessness. Emptiness. Mud in my boots and useless supplies on my back. My soul holding onto my rifle because my fingers have gone numb. Maybe I'm dead.
No.
That was long ago, and I'm here now. I didn't die.
I need a drink. Or a dozen.
Dawn.
Sweat on my forehead swabbed away by an unconcerned hand. Withdrawl. I don't want this. I want my whiskey, I want my pills, I want--
"How are you?"
Liar.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't stay away when I know you're hurting."
Bastard.
"You're not the only one who's made mistakes."
But they're the only thing I can call my own.
"I take it back. Whenever you need me, just call. You know I'm here for you."
I need to be there for myself. I missed you.
"I missed you too. How do you feel?"
Like hell. Like dying. Like living.
"That's my boy. That's Leo McGarry talking right there."
Silent hours. Creeping shadows. He's gone again, but I have the possibility of his return. No one else comes to see me. I sweat and shake alone in my narrow bed. I yell at the nurses for entertainment. I tell the psychiatrist crazy stories to see the look on his face.
And when the sun slips past the high rises and throws the city into blackness, I close my eyes. I put my hand under my cheek. I accept the nightmares. I grow into them.
The past is a chain we ought to drag behind us. I've carried it like the pack on my back, slogging through swamps and blood and sweat. I won't carry it anymore.
I'm not strong enough to do that. But I've grabbed my second wind and I won't let go.
Second Wind
by BJ Garrett
I was drowning in a bitter/sweet brown nothingness. I felt it sweep me down and down and close over me--oblivion, finally. I closed my eyes, put my hands under my cheek, and slipped deeper into the womb-like comfort of the void.
And I slept for what felt like eternity but was really only days.
The phone rang a hundred times and I didn't hear it. The buzzer chimed every second, and I didn't hear it.
I think maybe I died for a while in those days, and his frantic voice woke me from death.
He saved me, and that was the end of it.
"You can't do this forever. One day I won't get the feeling that you're not okay and come running."
I know.
"You could have died."
I knew that when I opened the bottle of Southern Comfort. And the bottle of Valium.
"You need to go away for a while, Leo. It's the best thing."
I know. But I won't.
"You have to."
I won't leave you.
"You're no good to anybody like this. Get your ass out of here."
How can I go? What will people say? Where will I go? I hang around to protect you, and I can't even take care of myself. I even fail at suicide.
"What did you say?"
Dammit.
"Did you do it on purpose, Leo?"
What can I say?
"That's it. I'm done with you. I'm tired of trying to pull you up and never getting a second of help from you. I won't say I don't care anymore, but I will say that you've taxed my compassion to the depths. You do whatever you want, and when you're clean and sober, call me. When you've done for yourself what you keep trying to do for me, call me."
Don't do this to me.
"What? Did you hear me, McGarry?"
Yes.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Goodbye. It was fun while it lasted. Don't refuse my euology, it would make Jenny very upset.
"For God's sake. Don't talk like that."
Don't leave me.
"Okay. Goodbye. I mean it, don't call until you've cleaned up your act."
The door is closed. I'm alone. There's no one left to care about me. I've driven everyone away, and without a word of protest from any of them.
I guess they never cared to begin with.
On my side, looking out the window, I tug at the catheter in my hand, wanting the machines to stop whirring and make that horrible buzzing sound. I'd like to hear it before it happens for real.
Night.
Restlessness. Emptiness. Mud in my boots and useless supplies on my back. My soul holding onto my rifle because my fingers have gone numb. Maybe I'm dead.
No.
That was long ago, and I'm here now. I didn't die.
I need a drink. Or a dozen.
Dawn.
Sweat on my forehead swabbed away by an unconcerned hand. Withdrawl. I don't want this. I want my whiskey, I want my pills, I want--
"How are you?"
Liar.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't stay away when I know you're hurting."
Bastard.
"You're not the only one who's made mistakes."
But they're the only thing I can call my own.
"I take it back. Whenever you need me, just call. You know I'm here for you."
I need to be there for myself. I missed you.
"I missed you too. How do you feel?"
Like hell. Like dying. Like living.
"That's my boy. That's Leo McGarry talking right there."
Silent hours. Creeping shadows. He's gone again, but I have the possibility of his return. No one else comes to see me. I sweat and shake alone in my narrow bed. I yell at the nurses for entertainment. I tell the psychiatrist crazy stories to see the look on his face.
And when the sun slips past the high rises and throws the city into blackness, I close my eyes. I put my hand under my cheek. I accept the nightmares. I grow into them.
The past is a chain we ought to drag behind us. I've carried it like the pack on my back, slogging through swamps and blood and sweat. I won't carry it anymore.
I'm not strong enough to do that. But I've grabbed my second wind and I won't let go.