Note to my three readers, please know I adore you! I am so happy you're re-reading this old story. It makes me happy you're there, reminds me of the best times of our TnT love.
On the Edge of Wakefulness, Part 2
Chapter 35
What you want, baby?
"What I want is for you to STAY," Todd grunted angrily at Téa. "Prove any of what you been saying, by staying."
As if he suddenly realized he had her in his hand, he glanced at his grip and pushed her away, releasing her. He did not stop looking at her, his light eyes bright with fever, accusing her of some great wrong. The dark brown in the beard he wore, an unkempt thing, no care in its cut or shape, made the lightness of those eyes even more pronounced. A lightness that wasn't normally there.
Offering up her palms in a kind of surrender, Téa said softly, as softly as her mimicking of Brandy, "Okay, it's okay, I'll stay." She held his gaze because she heard him deeply, heard his words in her gut. He was challenging her. I will be here for you, no matter what you ever do. Would she? She breathed a calming breath, a hard edge of her voice in it. After a second, she defended herself, "I wasn't 'leaving' you, I was just letting you sleep."
"Whatever," he mumbled and turned away, eyes on a black window.
Todd sniffled and adjusted himself on the bed, uselessly, pointlessly, keenly aware of Téa next to him. She stood in silence, watching him. He could feel her. She had intruded into his fever dreams with words of love and ever-presence, and they had woken him so he listened and then wasn't sure she was real for the longest time so he reached for her, yeah? What crime is that? But then he understood she was leaving… and didn't want her to go, god damn it, pissed she was running as soon as he saw her. Only… she got bitchy back.
What you want, baby?
He slumped in the bed and turned away, muttering, "Stop being such a bitch," more to himself than her because he had to work hard to control emotions which threatened to wreck him even more than he already was. He smelled her perfume and it made him weepy. He ran his tongue around his teeth, all on the inside of his mouth, the taste of the syrupy methadone lingering. It was supposed to make things better, stop the pain of withdrawals and it did except… his craving for dope had not lessened, not one fucking bit. He huffed at the raw desire for it coursing through him, groaning, "Jesus..."
"I'm sorry…," he heard Téa say softly. "I don't know why I said that."
He knew why, though. She got mad at his grabbing her, at his cursing of her. Reasonable normal shit. And she was referring to Brandy being a prostitute, and that he was actually having sex with her, something she hated. Something that had been so very impossible for him and Téa. He winced and bit down on his teeth. Not liking to think about that in front of her. Not liking the images that suddenly bloomed like spring on fast forward. Ugly shit that was nothing like a spring meadow. Ugly shit with Brandy that he knew in all honesty should be added to his rap sheet. He shifted his body, trying to relieve pressure on his side, which awakened the wound on his thigh and he grunted at the pain there.
Téa, not knowing the shit in his head, gently touched his arm and sighed, "You're so hot, let me get more ice packs." And he wanted to cry at that for some unknown reason but said nothing, just looking out the black of the window, the bite between his legs making its own noise that sounded something like…
What you want? Oh I know what you want. Two or three more pulls and you would have sprayed right down that fucker's throat.
And he felt salted tears dripping down his face now just as the tape from the bandaging started to really irritate him, making him want to scratch, scratch, scratch the way he did when he was high… and he glimpsed slightly spread thighs, and really didn't like those images that fluttered to life on top of the ones already there, didn't like the sensation that was racing from his brain to his dick right now, a part of his body that obviously didn't care where it got its energy from. Sick motherfucker. He always knew THAT shit. Since before… since… way… fucking before...
Hoo boy, lookit you, lookit you…you grabbin' daddy's hair and moving right into him, feel that, feel it real good...
He groaned low like an alley cat at that memory or fantasy or what the fuck ever because that couldn't possibly ever have happened with Peter, just fucked up imagination, and Téa wiped his forehead with a wet towel, "I can't believe they just let you lie here this way," and it was all he could do to NOT grab her hand and get her to stroke him and he could feel he was fully hard at that idea more than at the other idea and tears stung his eyes real bad all of a sudden.
Fuck…fuck...
He pulled at the sheet beneath him, pictures threatening his ability to stay present, even the little presence he was managing, so he focused on the scent of her as she pressed the towel to his chest, his neck. Closed his eyes and breathed her in, focused on her gentle tending to his body that reminded him of a mom. Listened to her breathing as she fluffed new ice packs a nurse brought her, as she arranged one of them under his arm that made him whimper and made her say, "Oh is it too much?"
He shrugged and whimpered more and she said, "You're burning up, though. Just try to keep them a little while." And all he could do was whimper again like a fucking baby. He didn't dare look at her. He would have sobbed if he did. And she kind of knew that, he thought, because she pressed the towel to his face and said, "It's okay, it's okay."
What you want, baby?
But see, she didn't know that Brandy's words screamed so much more than her bitchiness. They told him where he was, how deep in a hole he lived, of what he had become over the past months, and ... of all he had lost. His life. All the little things he never realized were so meaningful to him. Cereal in the morning, a tossed newspaper on the dinner table, a TV drama, sports… phone calls with Viki, Starr, fighting with Blair, days at the office, pizza with Téa, fighting with her about why they weren't having sex, the five million dollar celibacy… watching her sleep, then… he remembered the cigarettes…
The potential for a real life is what he lost. 'Cause let's be straight, he didn't have much to start with.
He huffed and reached for the cup of water next to him on the hospital tray. He shakily brought it to his lips and drank the cool water down. He then grabbed at a melting ice pack and tried to put it under his other arm so Téa made her way to that side. Took the melty pack from him and tossed it. Got the new one, much colder, and placed it under his arm. He still couldn't look at her as she fixed the pack. He stopped whimpering though. Said, "Don't leave me." He finally looked at her. And her expression told him just how broken he was here on this fucked up journey, so deep the concern on her beautiful perfect face.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I meant everything I said to you, Todd."
"Whatever," he murmured. "What you want, what you want…"
He focused on the blackened window, wondering the time of night it was, as if it mattered. Since his descent into hell oh-so-long ago, time had taken on a slippery constitution. It slithered about him, hissing seconds and minutes ... spraying them everywhere, tiny molecules of time that could never be reassembled. He understood that Christmas had come and gone, missed Starr's birthday, missed his own birthday. So many important dates splattered into the past. Time curled up in the wild weeds. No, more like a miserable rat struggling in a cat's extended jaw.
Téa ran the towel down his chest again and he watched her. She was so careful about touching him, so conscious of every contact. Unfamiliar. She avoided his nipples, avoided getting too low on his belly. All with good reason. He had been so protective at one time. Not anymore. Touch didn't seem to cause him the very real pain it once did. Heroin had done that to him, desensitized him, and that was better, right?
She raised brown eyes to his and the sorrow he saw gutted him. She didn't even know the truth of just how much he wasn't thinking touch-is-pain anymore. Total strangers could do the most intimate things to him, in the dark, as long as he was high. And sometimes… he could return the fuckin' favor. As long as he was high, or it was gonna get him high. At least… it seemed that way because most of the shit that happened was… so… dreamy. Fucked up imagination. He turned away from her intense gaze and heard himself groan softly.
Pretty boy, good for a fuck and a suck. Pretty faggot, good for it all. God, you felt good, better than you remembered, and god, you liked it just fine. All that wetness told me how much you liked it. The noise you made told me how much you liked it.
"Shut up, you bastard," he murmured aloud. "Stop with your sick fantasy."
"Are you talking to me?" Téa asked.
"Are you a bastard, Delgado?"
She laughed a little. And he knew he threw her a gentle look.
"Maybe I am," she said. "Maybe I am."
He reached for her wrist again, and stared at her now...
I don't have anything left for you, Téa. There isn't anywhere more to fall. Death is even too good for me at this point. I can see the pity in your eyes for my naked, bitten, ruined body. Stop punishing me, please please please stop.
The only one punishing you is you, Little One. You are your own worst judge. How you crave condemnation.
Oh you speak, Wise Woodsy Spirit! The one who left me, who didn't let me die.
No, it wasn't me who didn't let you die. It was YOU. Look at her, notice the parity between your dream and her presence in the room. All isn't lost.
"Fuck," he said under his breath. "Why you talk in riddles to me? Huh? Why you do that?"
"Shhh," Téa sighed, placing a wet cloth on his forehead again. She had to keep changing it, re-wetting it. He knew the towel grew hot quickly. "Try to rest, okay?"
"I don't understand 'parity.' What's that mean? Parity."
She smiled sadly, "Are you asking the definition of the word?"
He only looked at her, focusing on her continuing to touch him, the towel soothing him, her fingers doing the moving, fingertips on his chest, his stomach, his shoulders. He looked at her blouse, how it fell open, how the curve of her breast promised such a cherry thing in his mouth. Fuck. He knew he sounded like a crazy person. Knew she would keep being so cautious with him and he realized he was looking at their past in the way she held back and he kind of hated it.
Just touch me like everyone else does. Forget what you think you know about me. Touch me hard. Use your hands. Straight on my skin. God, just grab me… oh god… climb on top of me, open up for me… let me inside of you...
He groaned at his mind running so freely. At how fucking hard he was, so hard it hurt. Couldn't help it. And what the hell was the spirit saying, goddamn it? Other words pelted him, pictures still hovering. God, he hated being this weak, this helpless, this sick.
"Parity within the dream," he said. "... parity to you being in the room, parity to my dream? What fucking dream?"
Téa's hand rested at the top of the pillow, her other hand held the cloth. "You're not making sense, amor." He glanced upwards, squinting at a light that hit him wrong. She reached over and flipped a switch above the bed, dimming the room.
"I know," he said.
"What were you dreaming about? If you were."
He tried to think, tried to put himself wherever he'd been. Closed his eyes. "What was I dreaming," he asked. "Gotta think to where I was."
Her perfume reached him again, and her hair touched his shoulders. She was letting it grow long. He touched the strands and she let him, her eyes on his. There was a lot in those eyes and they weren't talking about any dream. God, how sad she was to be here, right now.
"So where were you?" she asked.
After some long slow moments, it came to him. A flash of white, a hand rubbing his back, a heartbeat thumping against his ear. Droplets of dream, bubbling up. Now he knew, like viewing a photograph where he could see every detail.
"I'm in a hospital room, with my mom. And I'm just a kid."
She smiled and watched him. Let him talk. As spacy as he was.
He sighed and found he was holding Téa's hand to his chest. Her fingers were still, a kind of stillness that couldn't last.
"I was lying with her in bed. She smelled like… flowers, her skin like silk. We were laughing." He could hear her even now, her voice light and open, piano notes fluttering about him, making him want to grab her giggles right out of the air. "And she hugged me," he said, "so hard I couldn't breathe. But it was a good hold." He smiled dreamily and Téa cooled his neck again, his chest, his face.
"A dream about being hugged by your mother… so beautiful." She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes a moment. "I'd love such a dream."
"It was amazing," he said.
"I know it was," she assured him.
Yeah, amazing to be in that room, amazing to be loved like that, so vivid a love that he was sure it must have actually occurred at some point. Not in the past though, but rather in death. He must have been taken to heaven for a minute or so, he guessed, he figured. He hoped. The dream had been a memory not fantasy. Tim had said he nearly died.
"I think it really happened," he said, his eyes bright with soulful pain, Téa still looking so concerned.
"You mean… how?" Her voice slipped over to him, soft with patience.
"The dream ... I think I was really there. Lying there. Being really a kid again. I felt so much ... there." The memory suddenly hurt and he choked with the pain of it, coughing abruptly, violently, turning to his side. Coughing shit up, spitting into a towel. His whole body shook with the force of it, every muscle seizing with incredible hurt, and Téa stayed right with him until the spasms passed, rubbing his back like his mother did. Afterwards, he fell back on the pillow, struggling not to cry. His held a hand to his face, something like shame. He felt like a child, like that boy that haunted him sometimes. Burned, broken, hollow. He also knew his erection finally passed. Small fucking mercies. He almost laughed.
Parity, he thought.
"The dream," he whispered raggedly. "I don't understand parity."
Téa's voice soothed him, like milk and honey. "Parity means parallel, or similarity," she said, "Something along those lines."
He furrowed his brows. "Something in the dream is parallel to something happening now…" He glanced at her, added, "with you."
"Maybe… my helping you. Maybe… maybe just the hospital."
"Tell me about your dreams," he said, quietly, so quiet she almost couldn't hear him.
Moving closer to him, she smiled as she caressed his face with the freshly cool cloth. "When I was a child, mí abuela told me that when we sleep, our spirits travel to different parts of heaven. Sometimes we remember the journey, other times we don't. I had thought about that a while and it occurred to me that nightmares are anything BUT heavenly. So I asked about them and she told me that scary places were part of heaven, too. I thought that was ridiculous and I told her so ... vociferously."
For the first time, he smiled. "I bet you did."
"Yeah," she said, "I did. And Abuelita thought I had a lot of nerve questioning God about His heaven and explained to me in no uncertain terms that nightmares reflected our humility before God, that even in heaven, in the beginning of our existence there, we might experience fear because we'll always be God's children and children are always a little afraid when they face unconditional love for the first time, always a little unsure of themselves. I didn't get that at all. I stood in front of her, stomped my foot and screamed that that was stupid, that heaven is supposed to be PERFECT." Téa had raised her voice a bit and Todd shifted his eyes to her. She sighed with heavy emotion and he saw her eyes moisten as she looked into his. She looked down though, touching a spray of chest hair with folded fingers, the corners of her lips lifting slightly.
Such such caution.
"What did she say to you?" Todd asked, eying her hand as she pulled it away.
"She told me that heaven IS perfect, that fear is natural, a part of us, and that God loves us endlessly. That to be afraid is ... just one tiny part of heaven. That nightmares are a trip to a beautiful place that simply has a different color. That there can be peace even in a nightmare because you're really in heaven." Téa's voice lowered and she lifted her shoulder.
Todd then said, "That's really stupid."
Téa laughed aloud, a relieving laugh, eyes landing on his, warm eyes that made his heart ache. He watched her long moments and she pressed that towel to his cheek, his forehead, his chest, a smile lingering on her face.
"Parity," he said. "I know, now. I get it."
"What do you think it is then?"
"I had been dreaming about someone taking care of me, Téa. Feeling it." He dropped his voice, barely above a whisper. "I feel it now. With you. Simple." The parity of his dream to Téa coming to him despite everything, despite his condition, despite his stubborn attachment to self-punishment. Taking that towel despite everything and touching him, cooling him. Proving her words. Maybe.
"Parity," Téa said, her eyes shining now. He reached to her and touched the salted wetness there. He tasted her tears.
"You're beautiful when you cry," he said.
She shook her head and went to the bowl of iced water, taking the cloth and rinsing it out. She twisted the towel delicately and Todd watched her. He noticed her take a breath and close her eyes briefly, as if she was tired. He placed his hand on her arm and he held her gaze.
"Did I die? Like ...really die?"
"Yes."
"I think I watched it."
"You didn't want to breathe anymore. Your heart stopped. I heard a doctor say, 'Call the time of death.' Except Dr. Lansing wouldn't let you go. He refused to stop trying to resuscitate you. He wouldn't give up. He yelled at someone who tried to pull him away from you."
"Lansing. The one from the emergency room?"
Téa nodded. "He and Tim are together, you know? In love. I think he wanted to save you because he knew that Tim would be so sad to lose you. He fought for you… because of love."
"Love," Todd said. "Well, good for Superman." He breathed in a pained, deep breath, seeing in his mind the room he had been in again, hearing his mother, feeling her. So real. He looked at Téa again. "I was ... I was happy, Delgado. I knew inside of me what it was like ... to be ... to be loved. I felt it."
He could barely say the words and Téa started to tear up again. Only this time, it was out of remembered sadness. "You didn't want to come back, Todd, I could see it. I knew it." She shrugged, taking a lock of his hair in her hand, caressing it. "I had a dream too while you lay there on machines. I heard you ask me for a reason to take another breath. I could only offer my love to you. I wasn't sure if it was enough … And when you woke, I knew it wasn't enough. You were angry to be alive. Sorry to be here."
He reached tiredly towards her, then pulled back his hand. Contemplated the brown pools of sadness. "I was mad," he said. "But…I didn't know better. I came back for you. I know I did. I love you, Téa... I love you even though you don't have any reason to believe that."
She squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly not wanting this much openness, this much closeness ... it was easier to love him from far away, to love him when he wasn't looking. She also couldn't help a thought that crept out. She wondered if he was somehow manipulating her like before, playing at love to get something from her. "Oh god," she said, painfully aware of how easily he could hurt her. How terribly fragile and suspect his love was.
She didn't have to say anything. She knew disappointment was all over her.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come back," he said.
"No!" Her voice hardened at that, angry at him for even thinking it, despite her own fears. "You aren't supposed to be dead. I'm here ... and I'm not going anywhere. I love you, I mean it."
"You say that, now. But ... I'm a fucked-up fuck-up." He turned away again, coughed pitifully, wetly. "You picked a hell of a man to love, Delgado."
She smiled slightly at him, touching his arm gently, stroking his hot skin but still afraid of his playing with her. Her expression darkened and she asked, "Tell me what you want from me. Tell me how I can help you ... what you want me to do? Or maybe I'm asking too early."
He chuckled and sniffled. "Yeah, it's too early. Guess I should try to go one hour without thinking of dope and my stupid fucked-up life before I think about how to deal with other people."
"I'm sorry ...I'm tired."
"I'm a selfish bastard, you know."
"Really? You?" She teased him.
He sat up, not without discomfort, and stared at her, his eyes still too bright with fever, suddenly emitting a kind of energy that usually unseated those around him. She patiently waited for him to say something, and he could see her concerned curiosity. A little mouse, afraid that the morsel might be laced with poison.
"Selfish me," he muttered, "A... selfish … bastard."
"Okay… how selfish?" She sniffled and crossed her arms, her eyes saddened. She knew what she nibbled on, knew the taste of poison.
He studied her mouth, then her eyes for a moment. Coughed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "I want you around me ... I want you to love me."
Téa waited for the next bite, keeping her eyes downcast. Just knowing the bitterness that would come, the ache.
"I want you to touch me and let me touch you."
He paused until Téa looked directly at him.
"Touching?"
"Yeah, Delgado, it's a euphemism for fucking. I want you and me… to fuck. A lot."
She kept cool. Shock was on her face and he almost laughed but then nothing was funny about that, yeah?
"And I want you to not have your own life away from me. I want you to put up with everything. Wait for me, never go anywhere, no matter what the fuck I do to make myself feel better, no matter who I do it with ... or WHAT I do ... or where I do it. No matter what, you stay with me. That's what I want from you."
"So there you have it. You're a selfish, self-obsessed ... bastard. And?"
"That's it." He snaked back down into his bed, the little burst of energy gone.
"Well, that's not going to happen. I do have some dignity in all this."
"You married me for five million. I think dignity is off the table."
She flashed an incredulous grin, "Unbelievable."
"You wanted to know what you could do to help me. I'm telling you."
"I'm still here, Todd. I'm not running. No matter your stupidity. But my dignity… is never 'off the table.'" And she tilted her head… adding, "and neither is yours."
Dignity… for him. His eyes glistened with the beginning of tears and he swallowed noisily. He did not know why that got to him. Or maybe he did. Can I get in bed with you? Please daddy, I'm scared. I want to get in bed with you. I won't tell mom anything. I hate the thunder. Please, please daddy! No! Let me back in! Daddy, I'm scared! He shuddered. His fist hurt from banging on that shut bedroom door. How old was he? Five? Six? Why that memory? Tell mom what? Too many more instances of such loss of dignity which completely and thoroughly lit… him... up.
"Dignity…" he growled, spitting out the word like it was such garbage.
What dignity did he ever have? Why should anyone else have what he himself didn't? Such fucking arrogance. Such fucking unfairness. What gave her the right to demand dignity? Who the fuck was SHE? Who the fuck is anyone to ask for such a thing? A burst of hate bubbled up in the back of his throat. He heard himself grunt under his breath at it. He shifted in the bed and eyed her from behind damp strings of hair. He knew what he looked like. He saw her take the smallest steps backwards.
"You say you're here but for how long, Téa? Will you run when you see me with Brandy, when you see me lookin' for her? Asking for her? For the heroin she carries? Will you run when you catch me with a needle in my hand? Will you kick me when I'm high? When I'm dying from withdrawals? Will you turn your back on me when I tell you I can't stop what I'm doing?" Tears were in his eyes again, furious hateful tears, his nose wet with those same tears, his features hardened with his special brand of hate. "I can't fucking ... STOP… because the pain never goes away, Téa!" He punched the air with his fist, with every closing word. "Do you GET THAT? I'm fucking ENTITLED to SOMETHING, ANYTHING! Go to hell with your goddamn DIGNITY! You don't know the fucking half of it! Fuck you, just FUCK you!"
He was breathing hard now and the cop at the door peeked into his room. The sheet had moved in his fury and exposed too much of him and he angrily grabbed at the linens, accomplishing nothing. "FUCK!" He collapsed back on the bed, his nakedness plain, his scars and bruising suddenly so visible, the sheet gripped tightly in his white-knuckled fist.
Téa had stepped back away from him. A good foot away.
"All okay?" the officer snapped from the doorway. "I can get the cuffs on him."
Exasperated, Téa responded sharply. "We're fine. He's sick, and sometimes sick people get upset. We don't need cuffs."
The man left, a warning shot on his face, the door swinging back shut, and Todd breathed deeply, trying so so hard to settle, his breath shaky and stressed. Those tears ran hot down his face and he mopped himself roughly. "Fuck…"
The silence was heavy, and it lasted a while. She could have fought him, could have taken his fury personally. Could have called it more abuse from him. But she didn't. Maybe she was tired, she thought. No, truth was… after the little she'd learned of his terrible past with Peter Manning, she understood why he'd be so angry. Oh hell, she never had to know a thing about Peter to understand and that forever understanding, right now,… well, it took the fight right out of her.
Téa cleared her throat and moved close to him, adjusting the sheets for him, covering him up again, giving him… just a little dignity. Her voice low and soft, Téa then said, "I don't know your losses of dignity, Todd, not really. I assume the gravity is… tremendous. I can see how angry you are at those losses. You're justified in your upset. But it only confirms that we are both entitled to it. We BOTH deserve dignity in all this. We are human. We deserve dignity."
After some more moments, he took her hand and ran his fingers up and down her forearm, dancing his fingertips along a bluish vein, beautifully embedded within flawless, peachy skin. He paused his playing at the crook of her elbow ... then looked at Téa directly. Whispered hoarsely, "Will you run from me, then? Now?"
She gazed at him sadly. "No. I won't run, but I won't sit idly by either. I won't let you come and go ... I won't let you abuse me. Loving you doesn't mean letting you walk all over me or ... or sitting by and letting you abuse yourself, or helping you abuse yourself. I will do what I have to do to help you. I will go to meetings with you, I'll talk to you, I'll cook you a meal, I'll offer you warmth ... I'll be your friend ... and I will always love you. You will always be able to look at me and hear me say, 'I love you,' and you can hang on to its truth. And …" She hesitated, took another step closer to him, her belly on the bed's edge, and pressed her palms against his cheeks. "You can be assured that I will never, ever, hurt you. Or purposefully try to take your dignity from you. I will never do something that actively HURTS YOU. Do you understand? I won't HURT you." She let go of him, her hands slipping downward … one hand remaining on his arm.
"You're saying ... you're trying to say, that you aren't her."
She gave the barest of nods. "I thought I could be. I pictured it. But when it comes right down to it, I can't. Even if you leave ... I can't be her."
And he pivoted again, to the addict. The muscles in his face twitched. There was a childlike quality there, all of a sudden.
"She loves me, too, you know. What she does is a kind of love, isn't it, Téa? A kind of acceptance? She helps me with what I need, she'll risk her life for me. And… and… she'll touch— she'll fuck me, even when I've hurt her. She doesn't judge me." The bait had become a plea ... the prodding, a peek into his broken heart, and soul.
"She hurts you, Todd. She's dangerous for you."
"You're just saying that 'cause you're jealous. You hate her 'cause I go to her ... 'cause I want her!"
Téa smiled, the barest of smiles, and studied the bruised story of Todd's life on his skin, of his desperate need for a sense of peacefulness, for a sense of love. "You don't love her, Todd. You love heroin. I'm still not going anywhere," she repeated, "but I won't hurt you like she does."
"She doesn't hurt me! How is total acceptance and TOTAL ... total …"
"Total ... what? Total submission to you? Total abrogation of her own sense of self so that you can get high? She runs to you with drugs, Todd, risking jail, getting jumped ... you nearly DIED ... how is that good? How is that loving you? What about HER? Don't you care about her? Think about it! Think ... amor... think."
Todd pulled away from Téa, shivering now. "Ohhh ... you're the selfish one, you know. You want me to be like everyone else ... you want me to be ... perfect and ... and ... someone that I'm not ... and ... and ... it isn't fair ... it's so easy for you to sit there and judge me and say you love me and ... and…" He rubbed his head and choked on tears that wanted to come out ...
...and fact is that he missed death. He missed it so much ... and ... and ... he stuck his hand under the sheets and shoved it over the bandaging, tightening his thighs to press his hand there. Looked out the night-filled window, wondered where the owl had gone who'd been hooting and mocking his addiction, promising salvation. Had it disappeared because of the methadone? Then he wondered about his sister, his sister whore, was she dying now? Was she getting her kind of peace from someone who'd snuff her out, without the love Todd gave her? Who'd pacify the voices inside her head ... without a care for what it did for her? Without knowing that it was what she needed and wanted?
"Okay ... okay …," Téa said, rubbing his shoulder carefully.
"Don't!" He swatted away her hand. The ice packs had long fallen away from him. He was shivering and Téa knew it was the fever.
"You need to cool down," she said. She picked up the ice packs, melting, and placed them under his arms again. She went to the side table and dipped the towel in the cold water, rinsed it. Then got close to him once more, placing the towel on his neck, sliding it to his chest. Back again. And he took it, he let her do that. After a bit, she said gently, "She hurts you by wanting you to stay sick ... and dependent on drugs because it keeps you at her side."
"No ... she doesn't care about that. She loves me."
"She loves you, maybe, but ... she needs you sick."
"You're the sick one, you're sick with jealousy. You ... you're wrong."
Téa took his hand, and ran the wet towel down from his bicep to his wrist. She glanced up at him. Did it again. Showing him without words, the track marks the needles had made. Terrible marks. Bruising. He pulled his hand back.
She touched his face with the cloth, his neck, his chest. Continued the gentle tending.
"I'm not wrong," she said as she worked. "She needs you to be as sick as she is because if you're well, then she's alone in this world. She will always offer you heroin, she will always offer you a place to vent your anger, she will always offer her body where you can let loose your anger at the world. She will feed your anger, she will do what she can to remind you of the parts of yourself that you ... hate."
"Shut up."
"I worry about her, too, you know, I do. She's a little girl in so many ways. She's YOU in others. She loves you ... but it's a dangerous kind of love. For both of you."
Pulling the sheet up, he rolled over onto his side. He shook off the ice packs. He wanted to hide like a child because he was such a mess, because he was so tired of fighting, because he knew Téa was fucking right. He could only keep up the "jealous" pretense for so long. Brandy and him... he knew the path they were on. He knew that the slow escalation of certain behaviors were leading to something terrible ... he knew it. And he wasn't talking about another overdose.
You can use me. I am yours. Sacrifice me because I am your lamb, I am your offering to him, to your savior. I mean something to you. So I will die for you.
Why ... do you do that? Why ... how can you TAKE that?! You stupid ... fucking ... whore. You deserve what you get, you deserve the pain and the hate being shoved at you, up into you. I hate you ... I hate you... do you understand? I HATE YOU!
Staring at the crumpled states of the ice packs on the floor, he breathed in, coughed a little. This hurt ... it all hurt and he wished he hadn't come back. He tried to reason about Brandy, tried to see the days ahead of him without her around, tried to see the future with Téa. That was where he fell down. He loved Téa and she loved him ... but he couldn't stand the image of what stood in front of them. Methadone, twelve steps ... drug rehabilitation ... drug relapses ... and all the REST of it, all his shit. Endless shit. He slowly moved his hand down to the bandaging on his thigh once more ... who was he anymore? How could he even consider a future with Téa? Maybe the only thing he deserved was to be on the doomed path with trash like him, with Brandy.
Hooboy, lookit you, look at YOU. You got no dignity, never had it. So come on… show me your dick.
"I'm shit and I belong with shit like me," he grumbled. "You should go, go get yourself someone else to love, someone clean, someone good, someone healthy and whole."
"It's too late ... I love you."
Rolled over again, his movements lethargic and slow. He closed his eyes and fought the weird thinking bouncing about. "God, I feel sorry for myself," he finally mumbled.
"You certainly do," Téa said, leaning towards him. She pressed her forehead to the side of his head. "You feel sorry enough to give yourself a break, Todd? Huh?"
Todd grunted a non-response and eyed her, feeling her undeserved warmth, and he lifted his heavy head to get a better look at her. She brushed his hair back and smiled a little.
"You sleep," she said.
"I can't."
"Try. I won't go anywhere. I'll stay by you. I'll sleep, too."
Todd seemed to want to say something, but held back. He bit his lip ... finally said in a hesitant voice, "Jedediah ... where is he?"
Téa squinted, "Mmmm ... here."
"In the hospital?" He seemed concerned, surprised.
"Yes ... in the juvenile lockdown ward, but don't worry. He's fine, not sick or anything. He's here instead of Juvie."
"Ohhh ... can I see him?"
"Sure."
"You sure he's all right, Téa?"
"Yes, I promise you. Now sleep."
He closed his eyes for a few minutes. He reached out and touched Téa's hand. Opened his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Heroin isn't going anywhere and I'm okay with that. And THAT scares me."
"I know."
He closed his eyes once more, tiredness taking over. "We're so alone, you know. She's ruined, you know. We're all ruined …" He stopped talking and made some small noises and then drifted off to sleep.
Téa leaned forward and kissed his hot head, the heat reminding her of Starr. She'd been sick a couple of times and Todd had that same kind of fever-heat. There was also a sweetness to his sweat and Téa knew it was the sugar of methadone, heroin. It was in his blood. And the depth of it made her think he'd always have that scent on him.
As he slept, a light kind of sleep, an in and out kinda sleep, he heard a nurse saying his fever was up again and then someone moved and adjusted him in the bed and then they washed his whole self with cold lake-like water and as he lay naked like a lake-like frog he heard himself coughing and moaning and whimpering, felt himself scraping his heels against wetted sheets, felt his hands grabbing at air. Such a constant noise of okay okay it's okay you're okay we got you it's okay settle down it's okay. Okay okay. And in all that distant drama, he heard Téa giving lawyerly orders and even glimpsed her once or twice, hovering above him, her hand on his head, on his shoulder, showing such concern, such worry, but also strength, strength he always knew was in her, strength he loved from the first moment he laid eyes on her.
Unlike him.
All he could think was that he was a puppy, a tiny black one, and he remembered he once had a dog and it had died and he had felt so sorry for it. The poor thing was fragile and beaten because he had been nothin' but a mangy old street dog. Never had much of a chance really, not with Peter Manning around ...
… no, that dog didn't have much of a chance at all.
To be continued….