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Hi guys.

I have a one parter here. One that I nearly didn't post but was conviced to by Roy and Karen's kind words.

Depending on the feedback there may be a sequel to this. So if you like it and want more, let me know.

Enjoy


*****


Point of No Return



Fear. It's a strange emotion. It can either push you to do what you want to do, what you have to do - or it can paralyze you. Stop you from stepping out there, from being bold and being you. If you fight it and succeed you're brave. If you fight it and fail you're foolish. If you run from it and hide away, you're weak. That's what I've always been taught - what I've seen with my own two eyes. Eyes that I now think have been fooling me all along.

My fear was about telling people. Telling them what was wrong, that I was depressed, what I was doing. You can't go from someone who's strong to suddenly falling apart. It doesn't work that way. I'd hidden the transition - I had to hide the result too. I didn't think it would be so hard or that I'd look for relief of a different kind.

The first time, I was shocked. I couldn't believe what I'd done. I remember sitting in my room, pure panic racing through my veins. I sat frozen for hours. My chest rose and fell with desperate pants. I was trying to make sense of what I'd done. It was so out of character. That's what my friends would have said. They would have been right. It was out of character for the old me - the one they knew. It wasn't, though, for the person I'd become. It became a solitary way to spend time - a vent for sorrow and pain. It had the same effect as a scream. It would clear my system for a while, but not long enough to let me live in the relief I'd found.

I never understood how something could be so good and so bad at the same time. I never knew what a difference it could make. I never knew why people did it. How something could be so addictive and so desirable. I didn't understand any of it until I did it myself. It was another secret, but one I didn't mind keeping. I knew this one would be the hardest for people to understand, but it was simple to me. I did it because it felt good. It washed away my fear and my pain. It freed me and I couldn't stop. I didn't want to.

It was hard to keep it a secret at first. But soon enough I didn't see many people so it started to get easier. It wasn't too much hassle to cover it - it being winter and all. I just wore long sleeves. In gym class I wrote notes - got out of it quite easily. People did notice something but I didn't really care. They'd never guess right. They noticed I was pale, but I said I had the flu - it matched up with my gym notes that way. My dad asked me if I was on drugs. All that did was plant the idea in my head - an idea that I was very willing to explore further.

Paranoia kicked in. Everyone was against me and out to get me. It just made me do it more. I had more pain to drain - more guilt running through my veins that I wanted gone. This was the easiest way. This made the pain go away and my nightly doses of morphine helped me forget. I was surprised how easy it was to find people in Capeside willing to give you what you want, just for a small favour. A kiss here, a touch there, a grope in a dark alleyway. Nothing too out there - but nothing's out there when you're flying high. There were a few times, now that I look back, that I was in major danger, but I wasn't aware of it at the time. All I was aware of was the needle in the dealer's grasp and the deal we were making to get it in mine. Most the time I didn't feel anything. There was nothing left inside to let me feel.

I was drained - emotionally and physically drained every day. It sounds frustrating. It sounds like hell. Looking back on it now I think it probably was - I just didn't know it. Or maybe I did. All I know is that I didn't care. I didn't want to care and I didn't want anyone else to either. That's why I wouldn't tell them. They'd only try to stop me and there was no one left that I cared enough about to stop for.

Each night I watched the blood flow - my blood, pouring down my arms and legs, spreading heat and stealing pain in return. It took its toll. There was only so much I could watch before I'd crack. That's when the needle came out, or anything else I could get my hands on, to take the memories of blood and pain, and bury them somewhere deep and far away. It was a desperate situation if I was bleeding and out of my cure. I would freak - sometimes pass out. It made me sick a few times.

I remember the worst time. There was blood trickling down my leg. I'd cut too deep. I felt so ill. I was in so much pain. I had nothing left to take. I had no choice. I had to do it. I had to go out and find the nameless dealer and without money convince him to help me out for the forth time in just over a month. It hurt so much to walk. I could feel the blood soaking in to the denim. I didn't care. I had to get out. I had to get a release for my release. It was a vicious cycle - one that was dangerous to alter. Lucky for me, or maybe not, the guy I did business with had a thing for blood and vulnerability. I was so desperate I agreed to let him do anything as long as I got what I needed first. Obviously he agreed. I'm still not sure where I woke up that next morning.

I had to get home and cleaned up for school. A cop car drove past me on the way. I was glad of the fact that I was draped in the dealer's coat when I woke up - mine alone wouldn't have covered the blood on my jeans, front and back. I wouldn't have dodged the car and my dad. The water in the bath stung my unhealed flesh, but soothed me in a strange way. I breathed in the steam, clearing my head - not even noticing the water I sat in was hot enough to burn.
I looked in the mirror. I was a total wreck. I couldn't carry on taking the cheap crap I'd been having. There was too much shit added to it. I had to get a job. I had to be able to get what I needed without putting my body out there for the dealer and his friends, night after night. I had to get out of school.

Looking back that was mistake. I cut myself off from friends. The only person I ever really saw was my reflection and even then I tried to avoid it. The red rings round my eyes haunted me. The scars scattered on my body were my only comfort. I could control those. I had say over where they were - their shape and size. They were my creation. I was finally controlling my life. It was up to me. No one had power over me. No one could influence me. No one could tell me what to do. No one knew better. I didn't have anyone I loved enough to save myself for. Not then anyway.

It wasn't long after I stopped going to school that people started interfering again - even my dad. As the irritation levels went up so did my intoxication. It wasn't long until my dad chucked me out again. I still don't know whether he knew what I was doing - I have my suspicions that he knew pretty much all along. I can't say how long I was out of school before I was out of a home too - that time's just a big blur to me. I remember not knowing where to go. There was nowhere I could go where they wouldn't notice what I was up to. I was always grateful to my dad for turning a blind eye. But if he hadn't, maybe I wouldn't have started.

The streets are cold places. They see everything but don't get involved. They are also not a very safe place - especially once you've got a name for yourself with the scum of Capeside - the groups that come out at night looking for a quick sale and a free lay. They came out looking for me. I had no money but I soon learnt that my body was sufficient. There would either be an exchange for drugs, or for money to allow me to buy them. I took whatever I could whenever I could. I had to be numb. I had to get rid of the small fraction of old me that was still deep, deep down within me. If it was there I couldn't go through with what I had to do to survive.

Even though I've tried to blank it out of my mind I can't get rid of this one memory. Everything around that time was all merged together. It was fuzzy. Thinking about it now is like watching a video with bad tracking - bad tracking and in a foreign language. It was a cold night. A long cold night. An alleyway - damp, dark, dirty. I was…I was doing what I had to do - let's leave it at that. I was lying on the bonnet of an abandoned car that I often slept in - some guy bent over me. I don't remember what he looked like. I don't remember his name. I don't think he even bothered to tell me. But he knew mine. Yeah…he sure knew mine. For a few minutes it was the only word capable of passing by his lips. It made me sick. I just wanted to get it over and done with so I could buy what I needed. I didn't enjoy it. I never did. It was business, not pleasure. I didn't think it would ever be pleasure again. It sure as hell wasn't love! I hadn't had a fix for a while. I wasn't numb to this. I remember crying out. I think that just turned the guy on even more. He carried on attacking me with my own name.
Anyway…that's when it happened. In the mixture of sweat and cries I saw him. He drove down the quiet, one-way street, which the alleyway joined to. I know he saw me. His window was down. He would have heard me too. I saw him over the guy's shoulder. I saw him look right at me - eye to eye. He just kept driving. He left me. My own father left me lying on the bonnet of a car, being near enough raped by a faceless man. It could have been rape as far as he knew.
I will never be released from the shame I experienced that night. I hope he'll never escape the guilt - assuming he ever felt any.

It carried on like that for a while - well, without my dad's viewing of course. I was getting sick. I only noticed though when I hadn't had a fix. I hadn't had access to clean clothes in a long time - a bath or shower for even longer. I didn't understand why guys still wanted me night after night. I reeked - even I knew that.
I spent all day when I should be at school just wandering around. You can get away with that in a place like Capeside. If you're not at the height of society you just disappear.

I had just come out from the park one morning having just finished a night's work and taken everything I could afford. My vision blurred and my head started to spin. I went to the nearest object, which happened to be a tree, and collapsed down against it - lying slumped on the sidewalk. When I came round I was aware of a figure in front of me. It took me a while to realise who it was, but when I did I was so glad I'd disposed of the last needle I'd used.

Doug Witter stood over me - a look in his eyes I hadn't seen for a long time. Looking back on it now I know it was concern but all I saw then was judgment. He whispered my name, unsure if I could hear him. I groaned as I rolled over, trying to get up. I couldn't control what helped next. I started to gag, but I had nothing in my stomach to bring up. It had been a week since I'd thought to save money for food. That just wasn't important to me. I collapsed back down on to the hard concrete. He was talking to me, saying something, but didn't come any closer. He seemed scared. He must have known I was too.

I ended up back against the tree. After a couple of minutes of staring at me he finally approached. He crouched next to me - still just staring. I stared back - fear clear in my eyes. He must have known I was high. He's a copper. He must have known, right? When he reached out and touched my arm I freaked - jumping up and moving well away from him. I hadn't had a caring physical touch for so long. I'd forgotten that they could actually be affectionate, not just business. If he didn't have what I wanted - what I needed - he couldn't touch me. It was that simple.
Staring back at him then, still crouched next to where I had been slumped, I noticed he wasn't in his uniform. That put me at ease a little. He approached me again. Saying something. I don't think I heard what. I think he was telling me to calm down - that I was okay.

The hug he gave me was the first hug I'd had in years. I don't know why he did it. Maybe he could see the pain in my eyes. Maybe he just wanted to stop me from running away. I don't think he counted on my crying though. I don't think he'd expected to get side tracked on the way home from work and have a dirty, sick, desperate teen crying in his arms. He held me. I'd never felt that amount of comfort before. It scared me. He whispered something about getting me cleaned up and warm. It was then I noticed how cold I was, that I'd been shaking. He said something about his apartment, a shower and some food. The next thing I knew I was falling asleep in the comfort of the passenger's seat of his car.

I stood in the shower about to pass out. I looked over my body - scattered with needle pricks, slash marks and the occasional bruise left from a rough punter. I didn't understand why Doug had taken me back to his apartment. I don't know why I let myself go - but I didn't really care at that moment. I was warm and I knew soon enough I would have eaten and be on my way again. He'd also taken my clothes and put them to be washed - thinking I hadn't noticed his half-hidden rummage through my pockets. It was obvious what he was looking for. If I hadn't been high I would have worried that I was in a cop's home and he had his suspicions of what I was up to. But I was, so I didn't even think about it. I let the hot water wash over me, removing the dirt from my hair and dried blood from my body. The colour of the water that swirled around my feet was horrifying - I couldn't remember my last shower.

I got out of the shower, relieved to once again feel clean and smell of soap and not sweat - other people's sweat. I cringed at the thought. That meant that the drugs were wearing off. I started to panic. I was unsure of my whereabouts and why I was there - let alone how I got there. As I started getting dressed in the pile of clothes left of the side - and started realising they didn't actually belong to me - my fuzzy memory started to come back to me. The look in his eyes. The way he near enough carried me in to his apartment. The state he'd found me in. It took a long time to convince myself to exit the bathroom.

We sat on the sofa. He held my mug of hot chocolate, occasionally handing it to me to take a sip. I don't think he trusted me to hold it. I was too shaky. He was probably scared I was going to spill it on his sofa or something. I was appreciative of the high quantity of sugar he'd put in it. Though it reminded me of how my mom used to make it - a memory I didn't want to experience. We sat in silence. I could tell he had hundreds of questions. He could tell I wasn't in the mood or the state to answer them. As he gave me some food he reminded me that he was off duty and I didn't have to worry. The line 'Trust no one who says 'trust me'', ran through my head. Confusion kicked in. My eyes glazed over and I was lost in my own world - my only means of surviving a month alone on the streets.

I ate so quickly I thought I was going to be ill. He watched. Once I'd finished he asked me how long it had been since I'd last eaten. When I just turned away and blushed he took my plate and made me more. I didn't know why he was doing this - he certainly didn't have to. For a while I was scared. I was scared he'd caught wind of my reputation on the streets, and this was his twisted, awkward form of foreplay. No. He was a cop. He wouldn't be interested in that. That's what I kept telling myself. But a small part of me didn't understand why he was giving me these things if he didn't want anything in return.

I'd eaten. I'd had a shower. I'd warmed up - my clothes were both clean and dry. I even found twenty dollars in the pocket of the clothes he gave me - I still think he put it there purposely. I saw no reason to still be sitting on his sofa, in his apartment, taking up his time. I wanted to leave. I felt uncomfortable. What the hell did he want? He kept looking at me - opening his mouth like he was going to say something, then shutting it again. He was driving me crazy. Sitting there was losing me money - maybe that's what the twenty dollars was all about. Did he know? He suddenly turned to me and asked me straight out how long I'd been taking drugs. I couldn't believe it. I stared at him, paralyzed. He just came right out with it. I did the only thing I could do - I lied. I sat there and told him I had no idea what he was going on about. I knew I was fooling myself more than I was Doug. Of course he knew - he was a cop.

He stared at me - clearly disappointed that I'd lied to him. That's when I realised. He knew long before he took me there that day. He was trying to befriend me, and quick. Unfortunately I wasn't interested. His next action scared the hell out of me. He lunged at me. I backed away and fell to the floor, hitting my head on the leg of his coffee table. He was grabbing at my sleeves - trying to pull them up my arms. I was desperately trying to get away. There was a difference between him having a hunch and actually having visual evidence. I didn't want the police involved. I kicked my legs and clenched the cuffs of the sleeves tightly between my fingers and palm. He was yelling something about wanting to help me and not hurt me. I don't remember if that's exactly right - I was screaming myself. Telling him to get off me, to leave me alone - that I just wanted to go. He was prying my fingers from my hand - half on top of me on the floor. I know I was over reacting. I just couldn't help it. I was still unsure what he wanted.
After a long time of fighting I gave in. He pulled the sleeve up to my elbow and saw what he was searching for - markings from months of drug abuse. I don't think he expected it to be that bad. He dropped my arm and went for the other one. He was in shock. I just lay on the floor - totally drained, having totally given up - tears rolling down my face.

He stared down at me - that damn look in his eyes again. I could hardly see him. Tears ruined my view. He was still holding my arm. We were frozen. The only sounds were of my crying. I didn't know what to say.
He suddenly jumped to life, leaping off of me , pulling me up and in to a hug. He held me securely, letting me cry in to his shoulder. All I kept thinking was 'What is it about this guy that makes him think that a hug will solve everything?' I tried to pull away but he held me too tightly. He was shaking as much as I was - except his wasn't drug induced - shock was responsible for his state. I felt stupid. I didn't know what to do or say, but I was okay in his warm embrace for a while longer. I was safe there - safe but not high. He was screwing with my head. The longer he held me the less I wanted to leave - the less I saw the need to work that night. I can't believe I still refer to it as work. I guess it's less shameful that way.

He whispered to me that he was going to help me. He said that I wasn't going back out there. He said he'd take care of me. I refused to let him. My life was under my control, not his. I wasn't going to live by anyone's rules anymore. I'd had a taste of freedom and the after taste left me craving more. I wasn't his. I was my own. I could do what I wanted when I wanted. I could take anything. It was up to me - my body - I could do what I liked to it. I could give it to anyone as long as they had what I desired. They were my choices to make.

The power of the hug however persuaded me to stay a night. He was begging. I had to say yes - I was still hungry. I was tired. I was fed up never getting any sleep. I was tired of being cold. Late winter is not a good time to get chucked out. I had a cough - a bad one. I figured I needed a little non-parental TLC. And maybe…just maybe I could slip out later and get what I needed to get through the night, or I could just wait until the next morning. Obviously I hadn't considered how hard my first night without a fix would be. I don't think he knew what he was getting himself into either.

He was holding me so tightly - back against the front door, curled on the floor, stopping me from getting away. I was screaming for him to let me go. I was begging. He didn't understand. It hurt. The pain was incredible. I couldn't breathe. Long groans would be released through clenched teeth as I fought to escape his hold. My legs kicked. I was hitting him - even biting him. I was kicking the walls. I figured if the neighbors heard they'd call the police. He wouldn't have been able to keep me there then. It would have taken twenty minutes to get something and come back. It wouldn't have made any difference to him. I couldn't stay there. I had to get away. I had to get a fix. I had to. It was killing me - he was killing me. I don't know how long that carried on. I was kicking so ferociously for so long I fell asleep in his arms, slumped on the floor against the door.

I woke up in his bed, dripping with sweat. I curled in to a ball and started groaning. I couldn't see Doug anywhere. The bathroom door was shut. Maybe he was in there. I carried on rolling around on the bed in desperation - unable to keep still. Suddenly I realised that if I couldn't see Doug anywhere it would be a perfect time to make a get away. I climbed off the bed and crept out of the bedroom. I was almost there when I spotted him. I made a dash for the door and so did he. I hated him for putting the chain across. If he hadn't I would have made it. He grabbed me round the middle and lifted me off the floor - dragging me back to the bedroom. I was kicking my legs and pulling at his arms. Tears were falling from my eyes - I was being defeated again. The frustration was getting too much. It was unbearable with the pain added. He had his work cut out keeping me in the bedroom. Every few minutes I made another hopeless dash for freedom. His only way of keeping me there was to hold me like he had to at the door - not letting me move an inch.

I wanted to sleep. Sleeping was my way of forgetting. I wanted it so bad. It was too hot. I couldn't sleep for that reason. I was dripping with sweat. Doug tried to remove my shirt but I wouldn't allow him. This was one fight he was not going to win. If he succeeded it would reveal my other secret. I wasn't ready for anyone to know that. I don't think he was ready either. I didn't want to have to explain.
I think I was drifting in and out of sleep for the next hour of so - before the sickness kicked in.

I tried to pull away to get to the bathroom but he wouldn't let me. It got to the point where he was ignoring my words - my insults, my pleas, my cries of pain. I tried to tell him. I really did. It wasn't long before everything he'd made me to eat was resurfacing. I couldn't move. It was too late by then. I couldn't even sit up - the stomach cramps were too painful. He carried on holding me - not scared of getting covered. He rubbed my back and positioned me in ways to stop me choking. I don't know who was more embarrassed at this point. I guess I was - I just couldn't show it. The bed was covered. I remember that. I remember clearly. Doug didn't care. His eyes stayed on me. I was the thing he cared about. That was a powerful realisation. I'd never had anyone like that in my life before.

The rest of the night was spent in the living room. He hadn't changed the bed - he didn't trust me to stay if he was to let go for more than a couple of seconds. He sat in front of the TV - watching a load of crap. I wasn't watching though. I sat wrapped in his arms, begging him to let me go. I'd stopped with the kicking and hitting. I was too tired. I was also bruised so God knows what state he was in. I was begging him to get me something - anything. I was crying for it. I still don't know how he managed to ignore me. I would have cracked. I would have given in. I would have told me to get out - but he didn't. He stayed calm and just watched the crap on TV as though I wasn't even there - not wrapped in his arms, covered in my own vomit, hurling abuse at him when ever I had the breath.

I didn't get anymore sleep that night. I stared at him for hours. I knew I was making him uncomfortable - I was trying to. If I annoyed him enough he would let me go - that's what I figured. It didn't work though. The more I annoyed him, the more desperate he knew I was and therefore tightened his hold. He waited until morning, very early morning, before moving. He half carried me in to the bedroom, handing me a clean shirt to put on while he changed the bed. I stared at it in my hands. I couldn't get changed in front of him. I had to be quick. I waited until his back was turned. I'd never changed so fast in all my life.

He told me we were going out. I didn't understand what he meant. We? There was no we. I was leaving. I had stayed the one night I'd promised to. I told him I was going. I went to the door. Why I looked back round I do not know. That look was back in his eyes - following me. I knew that I shouldn't really get on the wrong side of a cop - especially considering what he now knew about me. One more night. Just one more. Then I was leaving - whether he liked it or not.

He made me sit in the back of the cop car so I couldn't get out. He really didn't trust me. Hell…I didn't trust me. I was always on a look out for the perfect moment to make an escape. We got to the shop just as it was opening. We were the only customers. He opened the door and pulled me out by my wrist - keeping a tight grip of it. I tried to pull away. If only I could escape his hold, I could get away. I had figured out that I could use the twenty dollars from the pocket to buy a train ticket and get the hell away from everything - start over. But it was too late. He'd already pulled me in to the store.

I wandered around the store, being kept from going too far by Doug's hand still holding my wrist. He told me to put anything in to the basket that I wanted. He asked what food I liked - if there was anything I wanted. I whispered back that I'd be happy with anything that came in the form of a needle. He pretended he hadn't heard - showing me candy bars, asking if I wanted them. I ignored him. He dumped them in and carried on pulling me around - treating me like a disobedient child. He kept showing me things and I kept shaking my head - even if it meant turning down something I wanted. I could tell he was getting frustrated. I kept trying to pull away, gaining attention from the shopkeeper. He just pulled me back. I was getting annoyed. I began grabbing anything I could reach from the shelves and throwing it in to the basket. Why I did it, I don't know. I hated being under his control. It was one thing when he held me as I slept - it was a whole different thing if it involved him dragging me around public places. He suddenly dropped the basket down, turned round and grabbed me by my upper arms, unknowingly pressing on painful scars. He didn't say a word - just stared in to my eyes. I dipped my head, not wanting to look. A hand grabbed my chin and moved my head back up - holding eye contact. I was scared. Is this why he was helping me? Did he just want to control me? Tears found my eyes - my gasps for breath heard easily over the looming silence. He was hurting me and I couldn't even find the words to tell him. He stared back at me. He must have sensed my fear and pain because he loosened his grip. That was my chance. I ran.

I ran away from him, down the aisle, out the door, and straight in to a punter - the guy I'd been with the night my dad saw me. I couldn't believe it. I was trapped. My body was shaking. I could feel his hands on my arms. The same place Doug's had been a few seconds earlier. I froze. He was whispering something. I think he wanted to know why he hadn't been able to find me the night before. He wanted to know if then was an appropriate time. I couldn't speak. I felt sick. I was still in pain. I needed a fix. If I went with him I knew I would get one. I didn't care what I had to do. I nodded in agreement. I'd do anything he wanted. He knew that. He smiled - putting his arm around me to lead me away. His arm slid down my body, his hand arriving in my ass. I cringed but started walking anyway. He didn't even notice the tears in my eyes.

I was halfway down the street when I heard him calling. He was running towards us. There was a clear element of fear in his voice. It made the tears flow even more. He was calling my name. I was made to walk faster - being pulled along by the arm across my back and the hand groping me. I heard him right behind us. He grabbed the man's arm off of me and pushed him against a shop wall. All the commotion knocked me to the ground - left looking up at what was going on. Doug was yelling at the guy - asking him if he knew I was a minor. He didn't seem shocked. He just pulled away from Doug and sorted his ruffled clothing - giving me a wink as he walked away. I think Doug was unaware that his outburst and revealing my age did nothing but heighten the fantasy for that pervert.

Doug stared down at me in shock. He had tears in his eyes. I think he felt responsible for what almost happened. He came towards me, crouching down next to me and pulled me into an embrace. He was more scared than I was. He was whispering to me. He was promising me that he'd never let anyone touch me. He promised that he would help me. He stoked my hair like my mum used to when I was upset - that just made me cry even more. He held me tighter. He promised me that we were going to get though this. That I had to tell him what had been going on. I don't know why but I believed him. I wanted the drugs but I believed he was going to help me not rely on them so much. For the first time I hugged him back. I trusted him. He wouldn't have helped me if he wanted to hurt me - unless he wanted me as his own? No. He was a cop. I could trust him. I had no choice. He had such a strong hold on me. He was starting to own me.

He made me explain the pain. He wanted to know how it felt to need a fix. I couldn't really explain it. I said it was like an itch deep down that it wasn't possible to scratch without a little help from a substance. I told him that the pain of not having it was too intense to describe. I told him that it wasn't just physical pain but frustration and a force of habit. All this was said while curled in his arms - trying to fight the pain. I was tempted to tell him about my original release - the one that guided me to the drugs. I just couldn't. I knew that I'd still need it. I had enough brainpower to know that I couldn't tackle both things at the same time. I also knew the other wasn't as much of an addiction as it was craving. I wasn't going to go through all that with Doug - not then.

He left me on the sofa, rolling around in pain and went to the kitchen. I knew he was testing me. He wanted to see if I was going to run. Honestly, if I hadn't been in so much pain, I probably would have. If I knew I'd have been able to breathe all the way to the door I would have gone for it - at least until I looked in to his desperate eyes again. Or until he managed to stop me and get me in another of those holds that stopped me from moving, but some how stopped me panicking too. I have to admit, lying there on the sofa, watching him, watching me, I was tempted to make a dash for it, just to feel his arms around me again.

He put the mug down on the coffee table and crouched down on the floor next the sofa. He brushed his hand over my forehead checking my temperature - surprised to find I wasn't burning up. He pulled me up in to a seated position, ignoring my groan of pain. Ever since I'd been forced off the drugs I'd been surprised by everything that passed my lips - from the different groans, moans, abuse, vomit, spit.
He held me upright. I was too tired to do it myself. I would have smiled because his arms were around me again, but that would be wrong. He picked up the mug and brought it to my lips. I took one sip and started choking. That wasn't normal hot chocolate. He'd put something in it.

I stared at him before starting to pull away again. What had he given me? I thought he was trying to poison me. He quickly put the mug down and grabbed me with both arms - wrapping me tightly. My throat was burning. I was screaming for him to let me go. I thought that was why he'd been watching me when in the kitchen - he was trying to kill me, or drug and rape me. That's all that was going through my head. I had to get away. I bit down hard on his hand - I could taste blood. He yelled but didn't let me go. I started screaming louder, kicking him - he had my arms under his control. The bastard wouldn't let me go. I was getting desperate. He didn't have a clue what the problem was. He got a sudden burst of strength. He stood from the sofa - taking me with him, threw me down on my back and was on top of me. I was shaking. Tears were soaking my face. I thought I was going to die. He stared down at me. My eyes were shut - I couldn't see the look on his face. He must have been confused and angry - I hadn't meant to bite him. He was gripping my wrists and the front of my shirt - sitting on my legs. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. What was he doing to me? I thought he cared. I really though he wanted to help. I whispered for him not to hurt me. I was begging. I don't think he could believe what I was saying. He let go of my wrists. I was still too scared to move. When I finally opened my eyes, my gaze moved from Doug's to the mug on the table, back to him. Once he finally understood, he jumped off of me and pulled me up. Those arms were once again around me. He whispered to me that it was rum on the Chocolate. He wanted to numb the pain, but didn't want to tell me what it was in case I got addicted to that as well. I also noticed that all his alcohol had been locked away in a cupboard. He really didn't trust me - but at least he cared. Or said he did. I cried in his arms, drinking the spiked Chocolate for the rest of the night - not getting any sleep at all.

I lay sobbing in to his chest - his arms draped around my waist. Every time a wave of pain crept up on my body, my shaky fingers gripped his shirt tightly, as I pushed up against him. That was when he held me tightly. His arms raised to my back and fingers spread, covering more of my shaking form. My legs would tense and tears would fall. He lay there stroking my hair, whispering for me to breathe deeply and get through it. It hurt so much. The pain was all I could think about. It captured my brain and left me in such a state that I couldn't move.
When the next bout of pain kicked in his arms didn't raise from my waist. They stayed there. There was no uttering of comforting words. It didn't take me long to realise he was asleep. I looked up at him. His peaceful but haunted form stole my pain away. He was holding me as he slept. I cuddled in more - wanting to share that comfort with him. I pulled the blanket down from the back of the sofa, covering us. I lay there, in his arms, resting on top of him, just watching him sleep. It didn't even cross my mind that then was the perfect time to carry out my escape plan. I couldn't leave. I was in his arms. He had me.

I felt him stir beneath me and his lips smile against my hair. He stroked my cheek, thinking I was asleep. I wasn't. I just had my eyes shut - resting them. It was the only way to stop the tears. I could tell that he was shocked that I was still there. He had thought that I'd run away the second he closed his eyes. He carried on touching me - softly, gently, delicately. I guess he wanted to make sure that I wasn't just a dream. His hand ran down my side and smoothed along skin that was uncovered by my shirt. He soothed it under the blanket. Brushing his hand over that same patch over and over until it wanted more. It slid in to the back pocket of my jeans, his thumb stroking through the denim. I stopped breathing. He must have still been asleep - not aware of what he was doing. I couldn't move. I couldn't even open my eyes. I was scared. The touch felt good but so wrong. Why did he have to ruin it? Why couldn't he just leave it at having his arms around me when I was in pain? What did he really want?
When I made a small sound - a little whimper, or suppressed yawn, letting my chest rise against his, he quickly pulled away. It was a mistake. He hadn't meant to do it. He was still lost in a dream. That's what I told myself.

I stayed still for a while. I didn't want him to know I'd been awake. I didn't want to embarrass him. When I finally opened my eyes he was staring down at me. His eyes were shining. I remember that so clearly. He moved the blanket down off my shoulders - obviously aware of my heat. I lay there a while - growing more and more uncomfortable. I went to get up but his arms were still draped around my waist - they pulled me back. That resulted in an awkward moment. I fell back against him - face to face, eyes to eyes, lips to lips. I quickly jerked away and jumped up - staring down at him. He stared back, but he was smiling. I went to say something. Instead my body twisted and made a dash for the bathroom. Not a great way to start the day - though locked in the privacy of the bathroom, I knew I could make things better. It was time to see to my craving.

I pulled my shirt off as quick as I could and went to the medicine cabinet. I desperately rummaged through it to find anything with a sharp edge - anything that would cut through skin and a little deeper. I found a pair of scissors in the first aid box. I should have known Doug was the type to keep one at the ready. I took them out the box and put everything back where I found it. I knew Doug would realise I'd been going through everything just at a glance if I wasn't careful. He probably would have thought I was looking for pills though. I didn't care. He couldn't stop me from this. He couldn't lock me away from any potential harm - not if the harm was myself.

Finally there was blood. Everything was back to normal. I could breathe again. Comfort and relief flowed through my body - allowing me to finally smile. It felt so good. Nothing compared to the feeling of release. For the first time I didn't even feel the pain. I sat - back against the bath, watching blood trickle down my arm, down my chest and trail off before meeting my jeans. The scissors dropped from my hand and lay helplessly at my side. For a while I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was. I was free to be anyone I wanted. I was rich, healthy - I had someone. I felt their arms wrap around me. I felt them pull me close and wipe away my tears. Those sensations were lost when my eyes opened to the cold, white bathroom. I knew it was going to be harder than before.

He looked at me strangely. Maybe it was just me - I was probably imagining it. His eyes were always on me. They were burning me. I wasn't going near him. I spent all day outside the security of his arms. It was killing me. I wanted his arms to protect me and his words to soothe me - telling me that I was going to be okay. I couldn't though. That wasn't down to him. It was down to me. I wouldn't let him touch me. I'd betrayed him. I'd lied to him. I'd gone against his help. But those arms - his arms, they felt so good wrapped around me. I could live in them. But what he'd done that morning scared me. I didn't want anyone touching me - not like that. It wasn't right. I didn't want it. Maybe that's why he was staring - he was embarrassed about what happened, or maybe he knew what I'd done. I had been in the bathroom a long time. It was too painful to think about.

It carried on that way for a while - I can't remember exactly how long. Time played tricks on you in that apartment - never seeing the outdoors. I spent the morning in the bathroom, the afternoon being watched, and the evening sleeping in his arms. It was tiring to keep the secret - growing harder each day. He was always there. He'd taken time off work. I felt guilty for that. He did everything for me. He cooked, he washed my clothes, and he held me when I cried. I'd never cried so much in my life. He had a power over me. He brought out emotions that I wanted locked away. He drained the pain from my body and tried to keep it out. He was good, but not good enough to stop me from doing what I did each morning. I needed more. More than the conversation he tried everyday, trying to delve in to what I wanted kept hidden. Everything was too much.

He carried over another cup of hot chocolate and handed it to me. He didn't sit down - just stood and watched me cause ripples in the steaming liquid as I blew at it. I grew weary of his eyes on me. I grew nervous and tried to hide it. He asked if there was anything I wanted to tell him. I simply said no. There was nothing I 'wanted' to tell him. He carried on staring, and I carried on blowing, waiting for him to either sit down or go away.

When he finally made up his mind what he was doing he slumped down next to me on the sofa, causing the whole thing to shake. The boiling hot chocolate in my grasp spilt over my chest and stomach, forcing a scream from my mouth. He didn't seem shocked. He quickly took the cup from my hand and placed it on the table, before pulling me forward on the sofa and reaching for the hem of my shirt. I pulled away and told him to get off. He was not taking my shirt. I wasn't going to let him. It was burning. I could feel it burning - could feel the skin of my chest becoming inflamed. My shaking hands couldn't keep his determined set away. He pulled at my shirt, pulling it up my body and over my worried head.

I tried to get up - make a dash for the bathroom, but he pushed me back down. He kept a hand flat against my chest, holding me there. I watched it rise and fall with each strained breath. He was staring again - studying my form. His eyes spent what felt like hours examining each cut and bruise. I gulped in more air. His hand was surprisingly soothing on the burn. He was blinking - making sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. I didn't know what to say. What on earth could I say? Nothing but the truth could explain this. It didn't need explanation. He looked up at me. I saw the tears in his eyes. I knew he'd never understand me. I think he felt it too then. He didn't know what had happened to me to cause this. I wasn't about to go through everything. He knew that too. All colour drained from my face - not that there had been much.


I told him that they were old and that I didn't do it anymore. I carried on lying to him. I was begging for belief. I burst in to tears. His hand stayed on my chest - he refused to touch me in any other way. I carried on claiming that I hadn't done it from months. He stared at me. I saw his tears fall. I could feel his hand shaking. He had less colour in his cheeks than I guessed I did.
He suddenly stood from the sofa and walked to the kitchen, quickly returning with one of my shirts. He threw it down on to my lap. I stared at it confused, then at him. He made no movement - no signs of life. I unraveled it and saw the blood. I suddenly remembered putting it in the wash, hoping he wouldn't notice it. His clouded eyes caught my desperate pair. He asked me if I'd ever told him anything truthful. He told me to stop lying. He was yelling. Asking me if he knew what I was doing to him. I couldn't listen. He asked me if I wanted to die - if I was trying to kill myself. He wanted to know if I wanted to hurt him.


I'd never seen him like that. I tried to apologise. He just turned his back on me and walked to the door. He left me. I froze - staring at the door, waiting for him to come back through. I stayed like that for hours before my tears and pain carried me to a restless sleep, dreaming of him coming back and holding me. I'd never wanted to hurt him.

The door slammed shut again. He obviously meant to wake me up. He didn't say anything. He was angry. I could clearly see that. I'd never seen him angry before - not really. Not like this. I'd seen him upset, scared, disappointed, but never angry. I didn't like it. It reminded me of my dad and I started to get scared. He was in the kitchen, being loud - I think he was trying to scare me. I don't know. All I knew for sure was I didn't want to be in the same room as him. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. I silently climbed up off the sofa and crept to the bathroom. I still to this day don't understand how he moved so fast. I was almost at the bathroom, very aware I still had no shirt on, when I felt his hands grab me harshly and pull me back. He'd never touched me like that before. There was no care in his movement of my body - no thought given to my pain. I felt my body hit the wall and slide down to the floor. I was confused. I had no clue what was going on. My head hit the wall as I was near enough thrown against it. I winced. My hands went to my head as I curled up on the floor, bringing my knees in to my body - shaking with fear and pain.

He was standing over me. Just staring. No remorse for hurting me, no guilt - nothing. Just staring. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what was going through his mind. I'd hurt him. Was it now his turn to hurt me? The look in his eyes made me think that I should be begging for forgiveness - begging for him not to hurt me. I probably would have done if I had been able to talk. I wanted to cry, but for once there were no tears. There was nothing. The fear left. For once I didn't want his arms around me. The thought made me sick. All I cared about once again was getting a fix. Screw Doug Witter and his caring, good-guy act - the real man had come out when he grabbed me the way he did. I didn't care anymore. He could go to hell for all I cared and take his apartment, clean clothes, warmth and food with him. I didn't want it anymore. I was sick of being pushed around. Being pushed around by a father figure was what drove me to cutting and then drugs to begin with, and Doug was now doing the same thing. All respect I had for him died in those few seconds. I hated him.

I took some deep breaths and uncurled my body. I stared back. I gave it all I could. My eyes didn't leave his for even a split second. He knew I hated him. I didn't have to say it. I wanted to, but I didn't have to. I finally broke away form the icy stare. I shuffled a little on the floor before getting up. I gave him a brief look before going to move past him. He once again grabbed me. He gripped my upper arm and held me firmly. I hurled more abuse at him until he removed something from his pocket. I froze. I stared down at his hand. I felt sick. Why was he doing this to me? He asked if that was what I wanted - his cold voice swirling through my head. I didn't answer. I couldn't. I carried on staring. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see it.

My body fell back against the wall. I wasn't sure if that was due to another push or my legs giving in. This time his body moved down next to mine. He repeated the question. I had to make a choice. It seemed a simple one, but something was stopping me. Something inside of me was asking, 'what if?' He kept asking me - over and over. I couldn't think. I didn't know. He wasn't playing fair. He was telling me that all I had to do was say one word and he'd do it - he'd put me out of my misery. It was so tempting. It was as if he wanted me to tell him to do it.

He grabbed my arm and pulled it towards him. He held the needle he'd pulled from his pocket against my skin - waiting for me to give him a sign. I could see his hand was shaking. He was yelling again. That's when I realised he wasn't angry. He was scared - petrified. That triggered my tears. They ran down my cheeks. I knew that one jerk of my arm would cause the needle to prick the skin. His cries were blurred. He was saying that if I chose the needle, that would be it. He'd pack my bag and I'd have to leave. He'd never bother me again. I'd be free. I could do what I wanted with whoever I wanted. Choices would be my own. He said I had to choose. It was drugs or him.

It seemed an obvious choice. I had to go for what I wanted all along. My freedom, a fix - a free fix. He carried on staring at me. My eyes were fixed on the needle against my skin. I wanted it so badly. I could imagine the feeling as it flowed through my body. I could feel the fresh air blow through my hair as I left his apartment. I could taste freedom. He told me to just say the word. I opened my mouth but there were no words. What was 'the word'? What could I say? 'Do it', I guess, would have been fine. I just couldn't get my mouth to work - I was concentrating too hard on the needle. I just wanted him to do it. I was aching for it. Sweat poured from my body. I was so close to finally getting what I'd spent the last week begging for.

Still unable to say a word, I lifted my hand and rested it on top of his - the one holding the needle. He stared at me. I could feel the intensity. I pulled my gaze away from the needle to his eyes, hoping he'd see my need and the situation he was really putting me in to. Instead I saw his fear. Fear that one day he'd go to work and hear a report of a local teen found dead from drug abuse, or maybe even killed by a punter. For the first time I understood why he was doing all this for me. He didn't want to be the man that would have to tell my family and old friends that I was dead, and have to explain why. He didn't want to have to do that - not when he would have to tell them that he failed to do anything to try and help me. He didn't want that on his conscience. I could understand that. I wouldn't have wanted to be in his shoes. I had the power. For once I had power over him - true power over my life.

I gripped his hand and the end of the syringe, where his thumb rested. I carried on looking at him - eyes apologising. He saw the look and his tears began to flow. He opened his mouth to start begging, but he knew it was my decision. It was up to me - my choice. He said so himself.
Everything was going so slow. I saw a tear drop form his face. If I'd tried, I probably would have been able to catch it - kept it forever on the palm of my hand. My hand still rested on his. Our eyes were still joined. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the pain. I gripped his hand tightly. His stare intensified, then turned to shock as he felt his hand being pulled away from my skin by the hand gripping it. I felt the needle scrape over my skin as it raised up and away.

I snatched it from his hand. I stared at it. I wanted it so bad my body was shaking. He watched me. He didn't touch me - just waited to see what I was going to do. I was breathing heavily. My mind was split. Doug or the drugs - which one? Maybe I was better off without either of them. So why did I crave both? One look in to his eyes made up my mind. I threw it. It flew across the room and hit the door. It was gone. I'd chosen Doug. I couldn't believe it. He was as shocked as I was. We were both speechless.

I collapsed on to the floor. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. Regret flowed through my body. I'd made the wrong choice. I'd made a mistake. He just stared. All he could do was stare. I was falling apart on his floor - rolling around in serious pain, and all he could do was stare like I was some freak show. I stared back at him, a cold look in my eyes, and told him to go away. He didn't move an inch - didn't bat an eyelid. I was quite impressed.

Once the shock finally wore off he snapped back to life. He grabbed me in his arms and pulled me against his body - pulled me up onto his lap, like a child who'd fallen and grazed his knee. He would just kiss it better and tell the child to play more carefully. We both knew that wasn't going to work for me. We both knew I needed more. He held me - rocked me back and forth. He held me so tightly. My face was buried in his chest - crying and panting. His fingers ran across my cuts on my shoulders and upper arms. It was the first time he dared to touch them. It was the first time they'd been touched - touched with care and mild interest. I was shaking. He was trying to steady me. My desperate fingers clawed at his shirt - my mouth open against him, panting - fighting for air, fighting the tears, and for understanding of what I'd just done.

We whispered to me that he was proud of me. No one had said that to me since I was a kid. It shocked me. I raised my head - allowing our eyes to meet. My chin was still quivering. I must have looked like hell. He was stroking my hair - still managing to hold me securely. He wiped tears from my cheeks and wiped his hands dry on his shirt, which was already covered with many substances. I said he was lying. He couldn't be proud of me. I said that no one 'wants' to be proud of something like me - a screwed up kid. He simply shook his head and told me I was wrong. I buried my head back in to his soft body and let his hands soothe my skin and lips graze my hair.
"I'm proud of you, Jack McPhee," he whispered. "I love you, and I'm so damn proud."

Fear. It's a strange emotion. If you let it, it will hide from you everything you truly want deep down inside. It can paralyze your mind, and jumble thoughts up, until nothing makes sense anymore. It made me see through naïve eyes - eyes that believed the easy option was the way to go. That I should look out for only myself, because I was the only one I could trust. I now know it was fooling me.
What I have just shared with you was the hardest, scariest, most horrifying time in my life. In the end I chose the hard option. I chose to trust - and now I'm just damn thankful that I did.


End


Jo
xxxx