A/N: January 7, 10:20 PM, Central Standard Time. Here we go...chapter six.
P.S. Thank you to all of the input I got from those who PMed me, reviewed, etc.! NowI get to re-write THIS chapter too! XD Only slightly, though.
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This chapter rated PG-13 for mild violence.
Figuring Out My Life – Chapter Six
"All right, now that we know everybody's names, let's recite the theme."
I blink as everybody recites in unison what I guess it their credo they begin their meetings with. All at once, visions of a small group of people in a circle holding hands, oblivious to me and my camera as they tell each other that there is no day but today, smiling and hopeful... I blink again, snapping back to reality as I tune in to what they are saying halfway through.
"We have the power to change our lives through each other." We do? How come my life is different? Mine is nothing but a cycle. "We will be strong of heart, will, and courage..." Courage? To do what? "...so that we can become reunited with ourselves."
Is that my problem? Do I enjoy detachment so much I am disconnected from myself? It would make sense. It's always been the same problem, hasn't it?
My own thoughts seem to weigh me down into my seat as the others finish the 'theme'. Richard smiles at all of us, warm and collected. I sigh, too softly for the others to hear. And all the while, something deep inside me, only barely subdued by the drugs from the rehab filtering my system, my addiction is ready to rip me up from inside...
.-.-.
This armchair is really...squishy, my idle brain thinks, as I sit in the almost rock-solid chair in my room. Or it's my room until I finally get out of this place. It's been getting worse lately. Mostly at night. Withdrawal is hitting me really hard, and it's making me almost sick. I've gone to those group meetings twice a week now for two weeks. And they aren't getting any better. Everybody else seems to be actually changing their lives.
I've given up. My life's beyond changing; this addiction, need to fly...it won't go away, no matterwhat I or anybody else does.Hell, I could kill myself right now and it wouldn't make any difference.
Suddenly, I feel my heart stop beating as what my idle brain has just thought up hits me harder than any of the shit I'm going through. Did I seriously just think that? I didn't mean it, I tell myself. It's just a...figure of speech. I would never kill myself...never...right? NO. I wouldn't. Are you sure? I've done stupid stuff before, but I would never do something that low.
I hate my brain right now. It seems to be forming on its own, torturing me with horrible thoughts, starving for the drugs I've been denied. How do you know you wouldn't? It's a plausible theory. You want to fly away forever, but it's too hard to come back down. So don't. NO! That's just stupid. Never... You just don't want to show some spine for a change. Not KILLING myself is not being a coward! You're scared to die. Isn't that the ultimate decision you made? You're afraid of death and AIDS, and you need to face that fear. Face your fear of death. End this stupid cycle called your life.
Oh, God, now I'm feeling sick again. I fall to my knees, shaking, my head throbbing horribly, stomach lurching, every muscle cramping to the breaking point. It hurts so bad, I curl up into a ball, pressing my hands against my closed eyes...I need that feeling of flying again. I need that smack. There's no smack in a rehab, idiot. Then what else is there!
...Is that really my only other option? Such a final swipe, and it's irreversible. But is it really the answer? Is the problem with my life the fact that I'm alive? Is this some divine way of letting me know to get out of mortality and leave it behind? How can I be sure?
I wouldn't be addicted. I wouldn't have to continue the circle that makes up my life. No more disappointed looks from Collins, no more nightmares of Mimi dying and dead, no more Roger looking at me with disgust or anger or hatred...They all know I've screwed up, worse than they have. With a life so screwed up, what's the point? It's only going to get worse. The addiction, the death...Why put myself and those around me through this pain, when I can end it swiftly?
To my throbbing head, it all sounds so sensible, almost crystal clear, the only thing that has made sense since I came to this place. My whole life has been me making stupid mistakes, and it seems to me that I've finally figured out the only smart thing I can do. I open my eyes, still shaking horribly. I look around, and I see a vase of flowers some nurse brought in on the nightstand. I literally crawl over to the table, knocking it over. The glass vase shatters, and I'm left with multiple shards of glass on the ground. My hands shaking, I grab the largest shard, softly muttering under my breath, 'here's to this', before softly setting the cold and slightly wet shard of glass right on the sensitive skin on the underside of my wrist. It feels like ice...
I hesitate, my hands shaking violently, but for a moment I can't bring myself to make the cut. Millions of voices are crowding around me, filling my head with waking nightmares and visions of hatred and pain. You can't go on living like this. You can't go on living, Mark...Weak and trembling, I clench my eyes shut, every muscle in my body tense and cramping, applying as much pressure as possible to the glass against my wrist...
"Mr. Cohen!" I hear a man's voice behind me, and I leap up, dropping the shard of glass in my hand, only faintly hearing the shatter of the glass at my feet. There is utter silence, as the doctor stares at me with wide eyes. Realizing I will most likely never get a chance at this again, I kneel down to the floor in a flash, reaching for another shard of glass, but before my fingers can close around it I am grabbed (quite roughly) by the shoulders and forced onto my bed. I hear shouts as the man pinning me down calls for help, and I struggle against him, my head throbbing worse than before...now I feel the withdrawal taking my body over completely, and I almost completely lose consciousness, separated from the rest of the world, trapped in a blackness of pain...
.-.-.
Oh, God, I lost my chance. That's the first thing that comes to my head. The second thing that comes into my head is that I must have blacked out, because everything is now quiet. Third thing...I feel like I'm lying down...and everything is dark - that's four. Thefifth thing that comes to me is the sound of voices whispering above me.
"...the hell happened!"
"Roger, calm down." Collins. Thesixth thing. (I only vaguely realizethat my exhausted mind iskeeping track of the things I'm able to think.)
"I get a phone call from a doctor saying I need to come here, so I wanna know what the fuck happened!"
"Roger - "
"Where is he?"
"Use your eyes."
A pause. A long sigh. "...Thank God. It sounded like from what I heard he was dead or something..."
"No, Rog, he's not dead..." I want to see what's happening, but I'm still trying to understand what they are talking about.
Only after Roger's next comment does it suddenly come to me that I'm the one they're talking about. "What did Mark do? He's got IVs and everything..." Silence. "Collins, tell me. What happened?"
"...Rog, according to what the doctor said, he was on the floor below Mark's room, and he heard shattering glass." Pause. "He came up and saw Mark on the ground, holding a piece of glass to his wrist."
"Oh, god..."
"Rog, whatever you try to tell him when he wakes up, don't you dare tell him..."
"Tell me what?" My voice croaks out, barely more than a whisper. I slowly open my eyes now, and deduce that my glasses must be elsewhere, since all I see above me are blurs.
"Mark." Collins sounds relieved, and I know he's abandoned whatever conversation he was having earlier. "You scared us shitless."
I squint, trying to make out the blurry figures and figure out which is Collins and which is Roger. Moments later, I feel cold metal on my face and see Roger above me slipping my glasses on. "Thanks."
Roger looks me in the eyes for a moment, then looks away, and I see that he is now sitting in a chair next to my bed. He buries his face in his hands. I try to sit up to get a better look of the room around me, but I suddenly realize the moment I try to move that there is something on my arm. I panic for a moment, realizing I'm in a hospital. I move my head slightly to look down at myself, and I see two things: a tube attached to my left arm, and (to my utter horror) a deep gash in my right wrist. My eyes go wide seeing this, and Collins must notice. "The doctors are stabilizing your body. You were going through a pretty bad row when...well..." He falters slightly, looking away from my confused and almost shocked gaze. "You didn't lose much blood, thank god. For once we are grateful you have pitiful arm strength."
I look away from Collins, unable to fathom what I attempted to do. I wasn't in my right mind at all. I must be going insane, if I had...tried to...how could I have thought that would ever solve anything? Dammit, I can even feel the addiction taking me over even now; it's dull and the softest it's been since I remember, but it's still nagging the back of my head. I look over at Roger, seeing him with his forehead resting on his clenched fist in intense thought. What the hell is he thinking about? Probably what an idiot I am.
I look up at Collins, who I find is looking back up at me with an odd look, a look quite particular to the occasion. You can't look at somebody at any other time like you would if you were talking to somebody who almost tried to kill themselves. "Collins, I..."
"You were under stress, and you were hysterical. We all do stupid things, believe me. You just are getting your fair share around now." Collins attempts a smirk, which he somehow pulls off, but still is horribly feeble when compared to his usually shining face. "You're gonna get through it."
Lost for words, I look back at Roger, and see he has changed his position once again, with both of his hands covering his face. Finally, I hear him mutter something. "My god."
I blink multiple times before responding. "Rog, don't try to blame yourself. I'm the one who...well...You didn't have anything to do with it, Rog." I'm doing a horrible job of comforting him, and I know it.
He drops his hands, still staring at a spot on the floor. There is a long silence, during which I try to think of a better way to say what I want to say and Collins watches both of us with a mixed look on his face.Roger sighs, finally speaking. "I didn't know you thought it was that bad." Not sure what to say to this, I remain silent, and he continues, hardly waiting for a response from me. "If I had known you thought your life was that shitty, I could have told you. And now, because I'm so stupid, you almost..."
"I told you not to blame yourself." Again, Mark, you're doing a horrible job of comforting him.
He looks up at me, glum and defeated. "Mark, why do you think your life is bad enough to not keep going? Of all of us, you...? It...it doesn't make sense. Just doesn't...make sense."
"Rog, I've screwed my life up so bad now. I've gotten myself addicted to smack, and now I nearly commited suicide. I think there's a part of me that's out to make my life horrible or something." My eyes wander down, not wanting to maintain eye contact with him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Roger begins to shout, and I can't bring myself to even look him in the eyes while he does it. "You keep running away! That's you're fucking problem! You just don't GET IT! First it's the camera, then it's LA, then it's heroin, then it's suicide! Mark, just STOP FUCKING RUNNING AWAY!"
"ROGER." I hear Collins stand up, the legs of the chair he was sitting in scraping against the linoleum. A pause, and then I hear Roger's footsteps as he rushes out of the hospital room. I can swear I hear a soft sniffle as he rushes away. I feel a single tear leak out of the corner of my eye. "Mark...get better. I'll be back tomorrow." Then I hear Collins as he walked out of the hospital room, shutting the door behind him. More tears come leaking out, and soon I'm shaking with sobs. This cycle is never going to end...