Bitter Circles

***

Author: Flicker [Alex]

Rating: PG, PG-13? Bit of language

Genre: ER; Angst [Abby POV]

Summary: [Couple of weeks later]

Angel

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Lost inside this angel town

Lost like I could not be found

No connections of the heart

Love was glass that broke apart

Give me faith in dreams

And someone to hold

Give me love 'cause I'm out here in the cold

---

"Are you an angel?" My head looks up from the pale, milky skin from which I'm withdrawing blood. Me, an angel? I've never heard "Hark! Here is the drunkard angel Gabriel!" uttered about angels. Do they know addiction? Do angels get sad and bitter and dark and unworthy? No, I didn't think so.

Today is just another day. Another crappy day in the life of Abby Lockhart. But for this one kid… I smile at her and shake my head.

"No." It's not my smile. It's a fake smile I wear for patients. I parade around for approval with it, I haven't really smiled for a long time.

"My daddy said that all doctors are angels on earth." Amy's only five. I don't want to tell her that doctors are human just like everyone else, that they have to cope with their own crap and everyone else who gets themselves shot or beaten or diseased or hurt. All in the name of shitty pay. And a never-ending circle of work and coffee and late-night shifts that they can't escape.

"I'm not a doctor, I'm a nurse." She shakes her head at me and I feel a little diminished. How, and why all of a sudden do I feel like she's the adult, and I'm the child?

"But my daddy said that doctors are people who make people better. You make people better." I glance at her father, who stands behind her, looking awkward.

"They do. And I do. But that doesn't mean we're angels." I take out the needle and put a plaster on the small red hole. "I, for one, haven't seen any halos or wings around here." She smiles as she picks out a random doctor, and as luck goes, of all people, it would be Carter.

"Angels wear white." She says, pointing at his white coat. I look at her, amused. Carter, an angel. Well, I guess it's more believable than me being an angel. I tuck the blood sample into my pocket and as I leave to drop it off to be tested, my back pushing the door open so that I'm facing Amy, I stop and say,

"I'm not wearing white." And leave her to ponder on that fact.

***

I hurry myself down the hallways as I return with the results. I'm not trying to avoid Carter. It's more like I'm trying to avoid any private areas he may be able to corner me in.

We're still not talking. I mean, I don't blame him. It's not like I left him anything to say. And I couldn't say anything to him anyway. I just don't need him or his saintly helpfulness and I don't need his support or his smile, and I don't need his pain to sink in. I don't need him to save me.

I continue to walk, and I don't realize that my pace slows as I get lost within my thoughts. I'm unaware that my brow furrows, as I become more and more indignant thinking of how much I hate what Carter is trying to do for me.

It's unfair. It's unfair how he expects me to be the one to choose not to give up, the way he wants me to be strong, when he knows what it's like. He knows how it feels to be so alone and he knows addiction. He knows how everything hurts, and how your mind feels like it's going to explode and how your heart is going to cave in and how you crave something to soothe the pain. You crave somebody's help. You're screaming for help inside, but no one can hear, or they're not listening. You stumble and reach out for anything, anything to make it all go away, and there's nothing there. And then you see one option.

Lately, I hadn't thought I needed that option. It would be going back on several years of progress. But then what is "progress"? Is being sober going to give me a better life? Will it make people care? Will it scare away those demons on the dark, lonely nights that haunt me? No, being sober just makes it worse. It clarifies everything. Every little twinge of pain or doubt or hurt or confusion or anger is accentuated, magnified, and your mind is so painfully clear.

You need anything, anything that will make it blur.

I don't know why I give in so easily. I guess it's because I want it, and most of all I need it. What else is there for me? When I had an abortion, where was my family? Where was Richard and when did he become just "my husband"? Where was Maggie when I needed a mother? Where was Luka when I needed support? Where is Carter when I need him most? First he shoves his tongue down Susan's mouth as soon as she comes into the ER, and then he thinks he can tell me what to do. Most of all, though, where the fuck am I? When did I get lost into this dark, bitter and unworthy being?

I run a hand through my hair as I feel something tearing at my eyes and at the back of my throat, and I fumble towards something resembling normality. I will not break down. I will be strong. All I need is a couple more hours and then this facade can disappear. And then I can cry in solitude. I can watch as every minute of my life passes by without so much as a glimmer of hope. I can forget that I'm Abby Lockhart and I can drown my stupid, little, pathetic sorrows in alcohol.

"Something wrong?" I look up, and groan inwardly. Why him of all people? Why now of all the possible times?

"No." I say sharply, wrapping my scrubs around my body to make a point, physically. "I'm fine." His eyes bore into me and I feel the intensity despite the fact that I'm not looking up at him. I wait for something to happen, to provoke me into yelling, or into making a scene and then I would inevitably run off. Something to make the day worse. I wait. Nothing comes.

"Okay." I continue to look down, and then imagine him to shrug as he utters those two empty syllables. And then he walks away, no questions asked.

Bastard.

How can he do that? How can he care one minute and then completely give up the next? How can he be so cold? I'm such an idiot. I wanted him to try to help me. And it's my entire, stupid, fault for pushing him away, in a moment of irrationality. Who wouldn't blame him for listening, the way I yelled at him? God, I hate myself so much. I am such a fucking idiot. I. Hate. Myself.

I rub my face angrily. It's not life that's screwing me over, it's not God who's doing it either. I'm doing it to myself. I have no one to blame but myself for this sordid mess I've created for myself to survive in.

***

I play the good nurse for the rest of my shift, clearing things up for the little kid who thought I was an angel. She just smiles at me, either completely forgetting that I couldn't possibly be an angel, or because she really is just dumb.

I'm harsh with my thoughts and I know it, but I don't care.

When I'm done with her, she and her father begin to put on their coats and grab their bags. I let them leave, and I feel momentarily satisfied. She's going to be okay. Just before I turn around, though, she looks back at me. I wonder what she's thinking. I guess something along the lines of, "crazy bitch" but condensed into a little child's language. She continues to watch me as her father drags her along, fighting the incoming crowd of the freshly injured. I have never felt more scrutinized, except for maybe at a couple of AA meetings, but then everyone's looking at you and you're meant to feel scrutinized. And just before she disappears out of the doors, she yells,

"My daddy said angels aren't meant to know they're angels!" Could have been at anyone. I look around me, searching for anyone but me that she may have called out to. There's no one else looking her direction. I shrug and turn around. Angels are like drugs or alcohol. A crutch for people who can't handle reality.

***

"I hate my life, I hate my life, but most of all I hate my life…" I sit on the floor of my apartment, in my underwear, with the taste of tears and a bitter lingering of beer in my mouth. I'm quietly singing my own rendition of the infamous Coke advert song. I haven't drunk much, a couple of beers. I couldn't bring myself to drink anymore than that.

I had gotten to the third bottle and suddenly stopped. It wasn't making me any better, it was just making me hate myself more.

I can't believe I'm doing this. I resist the urge to puke out of self-hate. God, I hate this so much. I look at the beer bottle next to me, unfinished, but open. In anger I knock it over and it spills onto the carpet. I start to cry and I drown within my tears.



Minutes, hours pass, but my sobbing subsides. I feel suddenly cold. I should sleep. I have a shift sometime in the morning. But I get up and stumble to the bathroom and I glance at myself in the mirror. The woman who stares back is someone I have come to recognize for the past month or so. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and wild hair frames her face. Tears are streaked down her face, and she shivers. I splash water onto my face and look back up. It is the same woman. Still.

If only I would change to be a better person.

Once again I shiver, so I change out of my underwear into newer underwear and pull on baggy pants and a sweater. I grab my keys and look behind me before I leave the apartment. What a fucking mess. Unopened beer bottles are laid around the floor and clothes are strewn carelessly over the back of chairs and on top of tables. I sigh and leave. If only for a couple hours.



I walk around the streets of Chicago, but I have no idea what I'm doing. It's dark, late, and dangerous. Something inside is willing me to get beaten or killed by some criminal in the dead of night because I don't have the guts to do anything to myself. The better part of me wants me to go somewhere safe. There is nowhere. My own home is a mess and I will not go to Luka's. There's always Susan, but I don't know where she lives. Carter is another possibility to be ruled out. I'd almost laugh wryly if it hadn't been for the dark silence around me. Streetlights are lit and you can see the headlights of cars in the distance, but I am completely alone. I guess I should have gotten used to it by now.

I walk a little more, unaware of where my feet are leading, but vaguely sure. The area seems familiar and I haven't been attacked yet. It changes. This is the better part of Chicago. I regret going out for such a long walk without my coat. I feel half frozen, and I breathe out wisps of air as the heat from inside me hits the atmosphere. It's almost as if I am breathing out my entirety.

I look around me and notice that if I turn right I would be on Luka's street. Strange. I turn left.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't know why I'm walking in the middle of the night in amidst nowhere. But then a lot of things have been in question lately. One of them being my sanity.

If I had an angel, I guess they would have saved me by now. That's why I don't believe in angels. I was never one of those kids who believed in Santa Clause or the tooth fairy. For one thing, we were lucky if we got Christmas presents and we were never rewarded for losing teeth. It was never about money, it was just our parents. When we had found out about Santa Clause, we were too far past the point of believing in much. So angels weren't that much different. But it was probably just a girl thing that I liked the idea of angels. I liked the notion that there was someone watching over you, and watching out for you. I'd hope for an angel when my mother acted out. And for a while I thought she didn't have an angel, because she was always getting hurt. Then I gave up and figured no one had an angel. From what I had heard, angels helped when you needed help.

I carry on walking, this time by a main road. A couple of cars pass me by, but most of the regular people are sleeping. Not keeping vampire hours. I notice that up ahead of me is the road that leads to the drive that leads to the Carter mansion. He has such a big place. I'm surprised he doesn't get lonely that much. But I guess he has his grandmother and some servants, though I don't know how much company they are.

I pause and think. I could walk up there and ring the doorbell, and probably some servant would answer, and then I could ask to speak to "John Carter" and then explain and then… and then… I stop. No amount of explaining will solve anything. Not when the problem lies with me, not him.

So I continue my irregular route to nowhere, apparently. My feet propel me forward and onwards. They begin to ache a little. I'm not used to this much walking. The sky starts to lighten, which means it's in the early hours of the morning and I should be getting ready for a shift in a couple of hours. My pace quickens and then suddenly, I realize where I'm going. I'm going to where the AA meetings are held. Now I have reason to believe I am crazy. They aren't open to mad alcoholic women who wander around at night past her prospective and ex-lover's houses.

Nevertheless, I continue to the building. It doesn't matter that it isn't open. I'll go later, when it is. I want to be better. And I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself. I want to get better, even if it means having to sit through treacherous AA meetings. I want some piece of the sober Abby inside of me, and I want some part of my old life back.

Angels are never angels until they choose to be.

***

Author's Note: Looks like I *am* going to continue, but ideas are still welcomed. As is feedback. Direct them to allstar88uk@yahoo.co.uk Thanks muchly. =)