Note: Merry Christmukkah.
11:10 p.m.
"I think this is our biggest turn out for a while now," Drew said, rubbing his hands together and then pushing his wire-framed glasses up his nose – his eyes were swollen and red, like he'd been crying recently, or maybe even drinking.
"I know we don't – we don't usually start until Doctor Hatchman is here," he said, and the way he spat out the name made Mason finally start paying attention. He looked down at his post-it now.
T.Hatchman.
"But I just thought we should say hello to the new faces – the, the new people. The new guys. Yeah."
He gestured, naturally, to Rube and Mason, and to one other man sitting beside them. All three of them, grown men, stared at Drew like deer caught in high beams – a public speaker always had that sort of control over an audience, even in a room that small.
The guy beside Rube and Mason, the third who had been gestured to, was the first to speak,
"My name's Trevor." He said, and pointed to his name tag, where it very clearly declared his name, "See? Trevor. Um. I'm an alcoholic. I'm trying not to be."
There was a lifeless chorus of 'Hello Trevor' before they all turned their eyes onto Mason, who cringed under the attention. He sunk a little into his seat, wide eyed.
"Christ, they're all staring at me." Mason mumbled.
"That's because you're not saying anything and you look like a jackass." Rube mumbled back and yanked Mason up by his denim jacket, putting him into a proper sitting position again, "Now tell them your fucking name."
"David." Mason blurted out, louder than he needed to. "It's David."
An awkward silence as they waited for the second part. Rube nudged him.
"I'm not saying it." Mason said between his teeth.
The silence stretched on, and there was some nervous coughing around the room, and the scuffle of chairs as everyone pretended to concentrate on their seating arrangements, rather than on the fact that 'David' was refusing the key part of his introduction – admitting he had a problem.
Fortunately for Mason, that was when the group's therapist appeared in the doorway. He was a well-preserved forty-something; a man with a baby face, tousled brown hair, and big blue eyes that had just a few fine lines beneath them.
"I'm sorry I'm late gentleman, thank you for starting us off here, Drew." He said, and Drew seemed to curl back inside of himself, and immediately dropped into his chair, eyes to the floor. "I'm afraid I got a bit caught up with something."
And then he was making his way across the circle, but he stopped in his tracks halfway, his eyes landing on Trevor-the-new-guy, and there was a strange exchange between them; surprise on the therapist's face, and then both of them smiled.
"I'm glad you decided to come." he said, taking his seat, "For those of you who I've never had the pleasure of meeting before, I'm Doctor Hatchman. I work down at the detoxification facilities during the day and hold these sessions once a week."
"Yeah, we all know." Drew mumbled, and Hatchman gave him a sideways look before continuing.
"It's good to see new faces, to know you've come here by your own will,"
"Not really." Mason grumbled, and Hatchman's luminous eyes landed right on him.
"And what's your name?"
"David." Mason said quickly, "Um, Jones. But my friends call me Ziggy. Ow, dammit!"
He rubbed at his arm now, and Rube pretended he hadn't just blatantly elbowed Mason.
"And you're with David, then?"
"I'm his support system. Yes." Rube said.
"My tough love support system." Mason grumped.
"And your name -?" Hatchman asked, still directed at Rube.
"Nathan." Rube said.
"Nathan, what relation are you to David?"
There was a pause, and Rube and Mason exchanged looks,
"Friend." Rube said finally, and Mason sunk into his chair a little more.
From there, the meeting progressed.
The circle went around. Tales of woe as each of the men talked about their problems – marital issues, sexual problems, and stress at work, inability to cope with emotions, temptations, binges, and withdrawal. They all drank heavily at one point, but the difference between them and other alcoholics was that they were trying to change themselves for the better – all of them had something to say, except for Drew, who seemed to just withdraw into his own shell, further and further as the session went on.
11:50 p.m
"David, would you like to tell us a little bit about your problem?"
"I –" Mason said, startled out of the stupor he'd allowed himself to sink into, "Um."
At this juncture, he knew that saying 'I don't have a problem' would not fly. Even he had the state of mind to know that their only response would be to give him a pitying look and mumble things about denial. After a long silence, Mason seemed stuck, his eyes flicking around the room like ping pong balls as he tried to find a way out.
So Rube did what he did best, and handled the public relations end of things.
"I just wanted to commend you," Rube said, and all eyes shifted to him now, even Drew, "Every one of you for coming here."
"Why is that?" New-Guy-Trevor asked, apparently getting the point – shift attention away from Mason.
"Because years ago, groups like this didn't exist." Rube went on, "Years ago, alcoholism was still considered a curse – something caused purely by the devil. Back then, you were just considered spiritually weak if you drank. And modern society is no better, so obsessed with this – testosterone-fuelled image of masculinity, it's considered weak to seek out help. That's obviously not the case. You've got to be strong-willed to want to solve your problem, going to this sort of thing – especially attending religiously, like Drew here. People like him set an example for all of us."
Embarrassed little smiles appeared, and around the room shattered self-esteem got just a little stronger. Even Drew managed to look a little less gloomy, so Rube took that moment to briefly pat him on the shoulder; it looked like a friendly gesture, but both Rube and Mason knew otherwise. On some quasi-spiritual level, Drew probably also knew what had just happened – but on a conscious one, he had no clue.
"Thank you for that," Hatchman said, finally giving a genuine smile of his own, "I think Nathan has raised a very good point here today – it should be asserted that attending an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting is not an act of weakness, nor is it anything to be ashamed of. It's a sign of strength."
12:00 p.m
Mason reflected on the fact that Rube had done what he always managed to do; he had just quelled any remaining self-righteous anger or bitterness that was currently residing in him, and force him to see it from another point of view.
He fucking hated it when Rube did that, because once again, it meant he would be admitting Rube was right. He wasn't sure why that was such a big deal, but for some reason, it just was.
Maybe it was because he wanted Rube's approval.
"I drink too much," Mason said finally, breaking the brief silence that had fallen over the room, "I'm always drinking. I don't remember the last time I had a day where I didn't have a drink – actually, I think today is the first time in about a year that I haven't had any alcohol within the first few hours of being awake. I top up my water glass with vodka in the morning, I, um, I carry a flask with me most of the time. Except lately."
"Why is that?" Hatchman asked.
"I lost it."
"No, I mean, why do you drink?"
He could feel Rube's eyes on him. Mason chewed a little on his bottom lip, and he felt Rube nudge him again, but this time it wasn't painful because it was just Rube's fingers, pushing at his hand – not trying to hold it or anything, but just sort of ghosting nearby.
And this was a vital moment in time for Mason, because it meant he would be admitting things to others that he hadn't even admitted to himself yet. It meant he would be doing something he hadn't done for a very long time, taking a step up, and making a change.
And his thoughts ran thusly:
I drink because I had a miserable childhood.
I drink because I wasted my life away and I'll never, ever get it back.
I drink because I'll probably take your life one day.
All eyes were on him.
I drink because it's genetic.
I drink because I've had a problem with substance abuse since I was eleven.
I drink because I've got nothing else to put all of myself into, and even if I did, all of myself doesn't account for much of anything anymore.
Drew Reid was shuffling around with a black duffel bag beside his chair.
I drink because I want desperately to forget it all.
I drink because I hope that one day I'll wake up from a black out and my problems will have been solved for me.
I drink because I just can't deal alone, but I can't form a meaningful relationship.
I drink because you'll never get it.
A vital moment in time; colours were realigning.
I drink because I'm dead.
Reassuring, long, warm fingers.
Oh shit. I'm gay.
12:10 p.m.
Drew Reid withdrew a Smith & Wesson .45 revolver from his black duffel bag and shot Doctor Hatchman in the chest. Trevor was on his feet moments later, shouting to him:
"Arthur!"
"Arthur?" Mason repeated, and beside him, a stunned fellow A.A attendee nodded.
"Arthur Hatchman. Trevor Hatchman is the doctor's brother."
"Oh bloody hell."
Mason reached out in time to brush his fingers against Trevor's shoulder, and the blue light flared up just moments before Drew put a bullet between Trevor's eyes.
12:11 p.m.
Drew Reid turned the gun on himself.