Hope you enjoy this chapter. I wrote it at 2 in the morning. Reviews are welcome.
Chapter 25: August. 31, 2000, 5:30PM, Hospital Room (John Carter's Point of View):
I am so scared! But it's not just that. I am so confused that I don't know what's going on in my head anymore. And now they took Dr. Benton away. He's the only person who knows what's going on. I heard that my parents are on their way, and my Gamma has been here since I arrived. I don't want to see my family right now. And I especially don't want Dr. DeRaad here asking me all these ridiculous questions! I have to get out of here somehow.
I test the strength of the restraints. To anyone else it probably looks like I am trying to escape, thrashing and kicking around.
DeRaad has been talking this whole time. Finally I shout at him, "Stop talking!"
He stops what he is saying but continues with, "Dr. Carter, all I'm trying to do is help you figure out why you tried to end your life—."
"Fine. Fine!" I stop struggling. I can't stand this anymore. I am not crazy! I am not crazy! I am not crazy! Just let me die!
"What did you say, John?" There is a concerned look on DeRaad's face. Did I say that out loud? No, I couldn't have. I chuckle to myself but quickly stop when I realize I probably look even crazier now. I am lost in my thoughts for a moment but then hear the shrink again.
"John? John? Dr. Carter? Are you okay?"
I try to look him in the face but the restraints won't allow me to very well. I give up and simply say, "Isn't that what you're here to determine?"
"I am here to help you answer that question."
"Okay, I'll answer it." I am sick of these silly insignificant questions. "I am okay. I'm doing pretty well right now. But I'd be doing a lot better if I didn't have these restraints on."
DeRaad ignores that last comment of mine and responds, "Well, if you are doing so well, why do you think you are here today?"
"You guys made a mistake obviously," I plainly say.
"You think so? Because you seem to have some pretty serious cuts on your wrists and I think any doctor would agree that life can't be that good when you do that to yourself."
Now I have to bring out a little sarcasm to this conversation, "Well, I disagree and I'm a doctor—."
"Dr. Carter, your jokes will not get you out of here any faster."
Oh no, I have angered him.
"Ok," I respond, "I was so fucking doped up that I didn't know what the hell I was doing."
"Is that the only reason?"
I'm getting pissed off again. "Why the fuck so you people keep asking me these questions?! I told all this to Dr. Montgomery already. Wait, why isn't she here?"
"Dr. Montgomery had another patient she needed to attend to so you're stuck with me for now." DeRaad clears his throat and continues, "Okay, Dr. Carter, would you like to talk about the drugs?"
I sigh and ask, "What about them?"
"What have you been taking?"
"Pain medicine."
"What were you taking that for?"
I can't believe this guy. "For when I was stabbed in the back." I try to look at him again, "You remember that don't you? The psych consult didn't come down fast enough and Paul Sobricki stabbed me and Lucy with an eight inch knife—!"
"Doctor, please don't get excited or I may be forced to sedate you."
"Please do, I need a good buzz." I meant this comment as a joke, but suddenly it sounded so good. I moan to myself, "Oh, Jesus."
"What is it, John?"
"I am a drug addict, aren't I?" I don't want to believe it. It can't be true. I'm Dr. John Truman Carter III, the son of the ER. I was practically raised there. Their perfect little boy. Not so perfect anymore, I guess.
I am brought back to reality as DeRaad says, "It seems that you have a physical addiction and most likely a psychological addiction as well. Did you ever take any illegal substances?"
"No . . . wait," I try to remember, "Yes. I used heroin once, a while ago when the morphine wasn't working. But I knew I couldn't use that again."
Okay. And I see you were taking antidepressants as well. Were they helping you at all?"
All I can say is, "Doctor, you are aware of those papercuts on my wrists, right?" He just watches me. Okay, not a time for joking I guess. I continue, "I'm sorry. I guess think is just overwhelming. Yes, the antidepressants did help a little, but obviously not enough. And I felt like a fake person when I took them so I often didn't take what I should have." And then I took the pain meds I shouldn't have.
"John, do you know what may have set off your depression?"
I know the answer, but I don't want to say it. I try to think hard for another reason but there is none.
I respond, "Lucy's death is my fault. I should have been paying attention to how she was dealing with her patient. Maybe I could have gotten you guys to come down faster. But I can't change the past," I keep hearing myself say this. "She'd dead and it's because of me." Oh, no. I feel the tears forming again. I try to laugh off the tears and say, "I can't believe that I'm crying. I never cry."
"It's okay, John. You lost a close friend of yours. Maybe you have needed to cry for a while."
I make a weak chuckle again as I try to stop the tears and say, "God, I need a smoke. You don't think there's anyway I could go out and have one, do you?"
"Sorry, John, but you know I can't do that." He jots something down in his chart and continues, "Maybe your stay here will help you quit."
But I barely hear him say this because I am trying not to start crying again. It's kind of funny how I am opening up so much after putting up such a fight about it.
DeRaad asks me, "John, is there something more you would like to tell me?"
I try to shake my head, though I am sure it looks like I am just rolling it back and forth on the pillow. I finally say, "I just can't believe how bad it's gotten. If you had said to me a year ago that I would become a drug addict, I would never have believed you."
"But it's an addiction that you can fight and we will help you here at the hospital. And your friends and family will support you—."
"You don't know my family."
"I'm sure they will be glad to know you are okay and safe."
"No, no." That's the last thing my family will feel. "I'm number two in my family now."
I don't think he heard me because he continues, "And you are an adult, John. As long as you take responsibility for your actions and seek help—."
"That's not what they will be worried about." After all, I know my family better than DeRaad does.
"Okay, enlighten me then." He leans back in his chair.
"I am the second addict in my family. I helped hide my cousin Chase's addiction and tried to detox him myself. But he OD'd again and now he's a vegetable." I pause and think carefully of how to express myself. "My family will only care about the fucking press."
"What do you mean?"
"I am a Carter . . ." He gives me a blank look so I continue, "As in the Carter's, and the Carter Family Foundation."
It takes him a moment and then I hear, "Ah, the one that gives donations to this hospital."
"Yeah, and I'm sure they won't be pleases to read about how young Dr. Carter, heir to the family fortune, is in a psych ward for an overdose and slit wrists." I close my eyes and sigh, "This is fucking great."
"Like I said," DeRaad states, "I'm sure they will be happy to know that you are alive. Is there anything else that you would like to talk about?"
I keep my eyes closed and say, "No." I wish I could fall asleep right now, but I can't.
"Okay, well, I'll be back later." I hear him leave but I don't want to open my eyes just yet. I need to think . . .
It went too far and that's all there is to it. I should have known the warning signs to my own addiction. But I was in so much pain! But, then again, was I taking the drugs for the physical pain or to get rid of the memories? Now I'm thankful that I can't sleep. Whenever I do, I relive that awful Valentine's night. I don't want to think about that.
So how about something else. Like how I almost succeeded at suicide? Yet another thing I can't believe. Did I want to die that bad? Yes. Do I still?
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear someone come in and ask, "Dr. Carter?"
I keep my eyes closed as I answer, "Yes?"
"You have a visitor."
I hear a woman's voice say, "I'm sorry." I can't place the voice so I am forced to open my eyes.
She repeats, "I'm sorry."
And I understand.
Chapter 25: August. 31, 2000, 5:30PM, Hospital Room (John Carter's Point of View):
I am so scared! But it's not just that. I am so confused that I don't know what's going on in my head anymore. And now they took Dr. Benton away. He's the only person who knows what's going on. I heard that my parents are on their way, and my Gamma has been here since I arrived. I don't want to see my family right now. And I especially don't want Dr. DeRaad here asking me all these ridiculous questions! I have to get out of here somehow.
I test the strength of the restraints. To anyone else it probably looks like I am trying to escape, thrashing and kicking around.
DeRaad has been talking this whole time. Finally I shout at him, "Stop talking!"
He stops what he is saying but continues with, "Dr. Carter, all I'm trying to do is help you figure out why you tried to end your life—."
"Fine. Fine!" I stop struggling. I can't stand this anymore. I am not crazy! I am not crazy! I am not crazy! Just let me die!
"What did you say, John?" There is a concerned look on DeRaad's face. Did I say that out loud? No, I couldn't have. I chuckle to myself but quickly stop when I realize I probably look even crazier now. I am lost in my thoughts for a moment but then hear the shrink again.
"John? John? Dr. Carter? Are you okay?"
I try to look him in the face but the restraints won't allow me to very well. I give up and simply say, "Isn't that what you're here to determine?"
"I am here to help you answer that question."
"Okay, I'll answer it." I am sick of these silly insignificant questions. "I am okay. I'm doing pretty well right now. But I'd be doing a lot better if I didn't have these restraints on."
DeRaad ignores that last comment of mine and responds, "Well, if you are doing so well, why do you think you are here today?"
"You guys made a mistake obviously," I plainly say.
"You think so? Because you seem to have some pretty serious cuts on your wrists and I think any doctor would agree that life can't be that good when you do that to yourself."
Now I have to bring out a little sarcasm to this conversation, "Well, I disagree and I'm a doctor—."
"Dr. Carter, your jokes will not get you out of here any faster."
Oh no, I have angered him.
"Ok," I respond, "I was so fucking doped up that I didn't know what the hell I was doing."
"Is that the only reason?"
I'm getting pissed off again. "Why the fuck so you people keep asking me these questions?! I told all this to Dr. Montgomery already. Wait, why isn't she here?"
"Dr. Montgomery had another patient she needed to attend to so you're stuck with me for now." DeRaad clears his throat and continues, "Okay, Dr. Carter, would you like to talk about the drugs?"
I sigh and ask, "What about them?"
"What have you been taking?"
"Pain medicine."
"What were you taking that for?"
I can't believe this guy. "For when I was stabbed in the back." I try to look at him again, "You remember that don't you? The psych consult didn't come down fast enough and Paul Sobricki stabbed me and Lucy with an eight inch knife—!"
"Doctor, please don't get excited or I may be forced to sedate you."
"Please do, I need a good buzz." I meant this comment as a joke, but suddenly it sounded so good. I moan to myself, "Oh, Jesus."
"What is it, John?"
"I am a drug addict, aren't I?" I don't want to believe it. It can't be true. I'm Dr. John Truman Carter III, the son of the ER. I was practically raised there. Their perfect little boy. Not so perfect anymore, I guess.
I am brought back to reality as DeRaad says, "It seems that you have a physical addiction and most likely a psychological addiction as well. Did you ever take any illegal substances?"
"No . . . wait," I try to remember, "Yes. I used heroin once, a while ago when the morphine wasn't working. But I knew I couldn't use that again."
Okay. And I see you were taking antidepressants as well. Were they helping you at all?"
All I can say is, "Doctor, you are aware of those papercuts on my wrists, right?" He just watches me. Okay, not a time for joking I guess. I continue, "I'm sorry. I guess think is just overwhelming. Yes, the antidepressants did help a little, but obviously not enough. And I felt like a fake person when I took them so I often didn't take what I should have." And then I took the pain meds I shouldn't have.
"John, do you know what may have set off your depression?"
I know the answer, but I don't want to say it. I try to think hard for another reason but there is none.
I respond, "Lucy's death is my fault. I should have been paying attention to how she was dealing with her patient. Maybe I could have gotten you guys to come down faster. But I can't change the past," I keep hearing myself say this. "She'd dead and it's because of me." Oh, no. I feel the tears forming again. I try to laugh off the tears and say, "I can't believe that I'm crying. I never cry."
"It's okay, John. You lost a close friend of yours. Maybe you have needed to cry for a while."
I make a weak chuckle again as I try to stop the tears and say, "God, I need a smoke. You don't think there's anyway I could go out and have one, do you?"
"Sorry, John, but you know I can't do that." He jots something down in his chart and continues, "Maybe your stay here will help you quit."
But I barely hear him say this because I am trying not to start crying again. It's kind of funny how I am opening up so much after putting up such a fight about it.
DeRaad asks me, "John, is there something more you would like to tell me?"
I try to shake my head, though I am sure it looks like I am just rolling it back and forth on the pillow. I finally say, "I just can't believe how bad it's gotten. If you had said to me a year ago that I would become a drug addict, I would never have believed you."
"But it's an addiction that you can fight and we will help you here at the hospital. And your friends and family will support you—."
"You don't know my family."
"I'm sure they will be glad to know you are okay and safe."
"No, no." That's the last thing my family will feel. "I'm number two in my family now."
I don't think he heard me because he continues, "And you are an adult, John. As long as you take responsibility for your actions and seek help—."
"That's not what they will be worried about." After all, I know my family better than DeRaad does.
"Okay, enlighten me then." He leans back in his chair.
"I am the second addict in my family. I helped hide my cousin Chase's addiction and tried to detox him myself. But he OD'd again and now he's a vegetable." I pause and think carefully of how to express myself. "My family will only care about the fucking press."
"What do you mean?"
"I am a Carter . . ." He gives me a blank look so I continue, "As in the Carter's, and the Carter Family Foundation."
It takes him a moment and then I hear, "Ah, the one that gives donations to this hospital."
"Yeah, and I'm sure they won't be pleases to read about how young Dr. Carter, heir to the family fortune, is in a psych ward for an overdose and slit wrists." I close my eyes and sigh, "This is fucking great."
"Like I said," DeRaad states, "I'm sure they will be happy to know that you are alive. Is there anything else that you would like to talk about?"
I keep my eyes closed and say, "No." I wish I could fall asleep right now, but I can't.
"Okay, well, I'll be back later." I hear him leave but I don't want to open my eyes just yet. I need to think . . .
It went too far and that's all there is to it. I should have known the warning signs to my own addiction. But I was in so much pain! But, then again, was I taking the drugs for the physical pain or to get rid of the memories? Now I'm thankful that I can't sleep. Whenever I do, I relive that awful Valentine's night. I don't want to think about that.
So how about something else. Like how I almost succeeded at suicide? Yet another thing I can't believe. Did I want to die that bad? Yes. Do I still?
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear someone come in and ask, "Dr. Carter?"
I keep my eyes closed as I answer, "Yes?"
"You have a visitor."
I hear a woman's voice say, "I'm sorry." I can't place the voice so I am forced to open my eyes.
She repeats, "I'm sorry."
And I understand.