When he woke up, Oz found himself staring at the white ceiling of a hospital room. He knew hospitals well. He had visited them enough as a child...
Whenever his father had come home drunk, Oz had felt the blunt end of his anger. He could always recall the dark leather strap Mr. Osbourne had sometimes used, and how other times, he had just used his fists, and his feet. Either way, Oz always ended up in the same place: the hospital. Sometimes, as he had pretended to sleep, he would listen to his father talking over him to the doctor.
"He's just so rude to the other boys at school, they must do this in self defense.." And he would pretend to sleep until they left, and then he would cry quietly until he really did fall asleep. He knew that he couldn't tell. He would get it bad if he told, he knew. His father had trained him well....
"Hey, Oz, how're you feeling?" Willow asked quietly from a corner of the room. He rolled over to look at her, and instantly regretted it.
"Ow," he moaned quietly. Understatement of the century, Oz thought to himself. Feels like my head's being bashed in again...
Willow's face floated into his field of vision. She was smiling. Reaching up to gently touch his face, she kissed his forehead, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"Mrs. Summers went to get some soup. She was worried about the food here." Oz couldn't help but chuckle. He remembered the food. He had always eaten as much as possible when he was in the hospital. There had always been the possibility that he wouldn't have another bite for days afterward...
Joyce appeared in the doorway, holding a styrofoam container. She smiled, and handed it to Oz, along with a spoon and a Thermos of tea. He smiled gratefully.
"Thanks, Mrs. Summers, but you didn't have to. I'm kind of used to the hosptical food anyway..." Crap. He hadn't meant to let that slip...too late now, he thought, trying not to frown at the looks that Joyce and Willow were giving him. He shrugged. "I was a klutz when I was younger," he clarified, turning his attention to the soup that almost promised relief from the hammering in his temples. He got about two bites down and was almost sure he was going to be sick. He stopped eating.
He knew they wondered. Why, why he would do this to himself. You're smart, they'd say. Practically a genius, and you didn't think this would hurt you? And he knew the answer, though he would die before telling them.
I couldn't feel him hit me when I was high, he'd say. I was numb, it didn't hurt. Sure, I cried, I begged him to stop, just like I had before, but I crawled away, no matter how bruised and broken, I crawled away feeling like I had won. Like I had beat him. Because I didn't hurt, and when I started to hurt the next day, I took more. Then I was okay. I could live a normal life and never hurt because of him.
"Oz?" Xander was waving his hand in front of Oz's face, bringing him abruptly back to the present. Oz forced a smile.
"Xander...guess you know too, then, huh?" Xander nodded soberly.
"Man, I'm sorry...you should have told someone, you know? We could have helped you, before it came to this.." he said, motioning to their surroundings. Oz shrugged.
"I don't mind the hospital so much," he replied simply, turning to where he had put his soup down. He picked it up, stared into the container and swirled it around with his spoon before replacing it on the nightstand. It was cold, now, anyway. Xander sighed, and patted Oz's knee, standing up.
"I'll see you later, okay? I'm going to get some coffee and stuff. Buffy's going to come in to keep you company for awhile." Oz sighed.
"She doesn't have to. I'm okay on my own.." Xander kneeled down by Oz, looking intently into his eyes.
"Oz, and believe me when I say this, she wants to. Okay?" Oz nodded reluctantly, and Xander left, seeming satisfied.
The hospital days drifted by, while Oz drifted in and out of dreams. Out long enough to eat and smile, and back in to the twisted nightmare being created in his head. His father was beating him again, calling him a fairy, calling him weak, useless. He was thrown back in time to when his father had first found him painting his fingernails black, how he hadn't even bothered to find his leather strap. How he had punched Oz through the window, how he had cut his fingernails until they bled, then dumped his mother's polish remover on the wounds. How he had called him a fag, how Oz had been sure he was going to die...
and how, as soon as his nails grew back, he had painted them again. How, after that day, he had begun to rebel. How he had started taking heroin--
Out again, out of his dream world, eat, smile, back in. So went his days in the hospital. Then Mrs. Summers was telling him about rehab--
he wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming when she told him about it, but when he got out of the hospital the next day and Joyce said that Giles was going to drive him to rehab after school, he knew he had been awake.
Oz didn't want to go to rehab. He didn't want to tell, he wanted to keep the nightmare world to himself. It was behind him, now, anyway. He could stop taking drugs. He could stop hurting himself, he could stop...
but he went. He sat quietly in the car each day while Giles drove him, sat and politely shared during therapy, and sat quietly again while Giles drove him home. He never went into the house. As soon as Giles was safely out of sight, Oz was off in his van, back to Devon's house. Devon let him stay over whenever he wanted. Devon's mother didn't really mind, anyway, so it pretty much worked out. He didn't know about rehab, Devon. He didn't know about the heroin, none of it. He just let Oz stay the night whenever he asked. It worked out pretty well, actually.
When Oz knocked on Devon's door one night, he was surprised when no one answered. He raised his hand to knock again, when the door swung open. His father stood glaring at him from the doorway. Devon's face appeared behind Mr. Osbourne.
"Hey, Oz, did you know your dad's been looking for ya?" he asked. Oz nodded.
"Thanks, Dev..." Mr. Osbourne smiled, grabbing Oz's shoulder and leading him away from Devon's house.
"Daniel, I've been so worried. Good thing I found you," he was saying loudly, smiling and waving to Devon. Oz's heart pounded. He couldn't even take anything to stop the pain. When they got home, his father shoved him into the living room and slammed the door behind them. He fixed an icy glare on Oz, and smiled. "Now you're going to learn a lesson."
Whenever his father had come home drunk, Oz had felt the blunt end of his anger. He could always recall the dark leather strap Mr. Osbourne had sometimes used, and how other times, he had just used his fists, and his feet. Either way, Oz always ended up in the same place: the hospital. Sometimes, as he had pretended to sleep, he would listen to his father talking over him to the doctor.
"He's just so rude to the other boys at school, they must do this in self defense.." And he would pretend to sleep until they left, and then he would cry quietly until he really did fall asleep. He knew that he couldn't tell. He would get it bad if he told, he knew. His father had trained him well....
"Hey, Oz, how're you feeling?" Willow asked quietly from a corner of the room. He rolled over to look at her, and instantly regretted it.
"Ow," he moaned quietly. Understatement of the century, Oz thought to himself. Feels like my head's being bashed in again...
Willow's face floated into his field of vision. She was smiling. Reaching up to gently touch his face, she kissed his forehead, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"Mrs. Summers went to get some soup. She was worried about the food here." Oz couldn't help but chuckle. He remembered the food. He had always eaten as much as possible when he was in the hospital. There had always been the possibility that he wouldn't have another bite for days afterward...
Joyce appeared in the doorway, holding a styrofoam container. She smiled, and handed it to Oz, along with a spoon and a Thermos of tea. He smiled gratefully.
"Thanks, Mrs. Summers, but you didn't have to. I'm kind of used to the hosptical food anyway..." Crap. He hadn't meant to let that slip...too late now, he thought, trying not to frown at the looks that Joyce and Willow were giving him. He shrugged. "I was a klutz when I was younger," he clarified, turning his attention to the soup that almost promised relief from the hammering in his temples. He got about two bites down and was almost sure he was going to be sick. He stopped eating.
He knew they wondered. Why, why he would do this to himself. You're smart, they'd say. Practically a genius, and you didn't think this would hurt you? And he knew the answer, though he would die before telling them.
I couldn't feel him hit me when I was high, he'd say. I was numb, it didn't hurt. Sure, I cried, I begged him to stop, just like I had before, but I crawled away, no matter how bruised and broken, I crawled away feeling like I had won. Like I had beat him. Because I didn't hurt, and when I started to hurt the next day, I took more. Then I was okay. I could live a normal life and never hurt because of him.
"Oz?" Xander was waving his hand in front of Oz's face, bringing him abruptly back to the present. Oz forced a smile.
"Xander...guess you know too, then, huh?" Xander nodded soberly.
"Man, I'm sorry...you should have told someone, you know? We could have helped you, before it came to this.." he said, motioning to their surroundings. Oz shrugged.
"I don't mind the hospital so much," he replied simply, turning to where he had put his soup down. He picked it up, stared into the container and swirled it around with his spoon before replacing it on the nightstand. It was cold, now, anyway. Xander sighed, and patted Oz's knee, standing up.
"I'll see you later, okay? I'm going to get some coffee and stuff. Buffy's going to come in to keep you company for awhile." Oz sighed.
"She doesn't have to. I'm okay on my own.." Xander kneeled down by Oz, looking intently into his eyes.
"Oz, and believe me when I say this, she wants to. Okay?" Oz nodded reluctantly, and Xander left, seeming satisfied.
The hospital days drifted by, while Oz drifted in and out of dreams. Out long enough to eat and smile, and back in to the twisted nightmare being created in his head. His father was beating him again, calling him a fairy, calling him weak, useless. He was thrown back in time to when his father had first found him painting his fingernails black, how he hadn't even bothered to find his leather strap. How he had punched Oz through the window, how he had cut his fingernails until they bled, then dumped his mother's polish remover on the wounds. How he had called him a fag, how Oz had been sure he was going to die...
and how, as soon as his nails grew back, he had painted them again. How, after that day, he had begun to rebel. How he had started taking heroin--
Out again, out of his dream world, eat, smile, back in. So went his days in the hospital. Then Mrs. Summers was telling him about rehab--
he wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming when she told him about it, but when he got out of the hospital the next day and Joyce said that Giles was going to drive him to rehab after school, he knew he had been awake.
Oz didn't want to go to rehab. He didn't want to tell, he wanted to keep the nightmare world to himself. It was behind him, now, anyway. He could stop taking drugs. He could stop hurting himself, he could stop...
but he went. He sat quietly in the car each day while Giles drove him, sat and politely shared during therapy, and sat quietly again while Giles drove him home. He never went into the house. As soon as Giles was safely out of sight, Oz was off in his van, back to Devon's house. Devon let him stay over whenever he wanted. Devon's mother didn't really mind, anyway, so it pretty much worked out. He didn't know about rehab, Devon. He didn't know about the heroin, none of it. He just let Oz stay the night whenever he asked. It worked out pretty well, actually.
When Oz knocked on Devon's door one night, he was surprised when no one answered. He raised his hand to knock again, when the door swung open. His father stood glaring at him from the doorway. Devon's face appeared behind Mr. Osbourne.
"Hey, Oz, did you know your dad's been looking for ya?" he asked. Oz nodded.
"Thanks, Dev..." Mr. Osbourne smiled, grabbing Oz's shoulder and leading him away from Devon's house.
"Daniel, I've been so worried. Good thing I found you," he was saying loudly, smiling and waving to Devon. Oz's heart pounded. He couldn't even take anything to stop the pain. When they got home, his father shoved him into the living room and slammed the door behind them. He fixed an icy glare on Oz, and smiled. "Now you're going to learn a lesson."
