Broken Neon Arabesque (12/?)
Part 12
“Carl?”
I blink my eyes, once, twice, scared that this is just one last delusion, although he fails to dematerialise. But at the same time, he looks out of place. His figure, stock still in the middle of hundreds of miniscule movements - hands covering up yawning faces, nurses bustling around, checking charts and patients. Lips slapping together as people talk, expressing relief, condolences, grief. And there he is, in the midst of all this, looking like he’s from another world entirely. Looking too solid to be a ghost, but pale enough under the bright clinical lights to seem like it could just be a possibility. And not a single twitch or tremor, no step forward…or back. Just there staring straight at me, an unreadable expression on his face.
But he can’t be here, can he? Perhaps it isn’t him at all. Maybe it’s like when you’re a kid in the supermarket, running up to your mum and tugging a sleeve only to find a stranger staring back. Senses all layering over each other, showing what you want to see, not what’s really know. Carl couldn’t be here. He doesn’t exist outside of his flat. And the clothes, they’re not right either, too clean, baggy…not tight denim and leather, stained and torn. It’s all wrong, all of it. I almost close my eyes, but I can’t, because as much as it can’t be him, everything else…the important things like those eyes, stormy and deep, tell me that it most certainly is.
I feel a sigh winding its way through my lungs. I feel like I should yell, cry, laugh, smile, all in the same moment, but I can’t decide which to go through with, so the sigh will have to do. His hair is wet, curling at the ends, and I can feel anger rising up unbidden. So was that why he didn’t come with me when I needed him then? Because he wanted to wash his fucking hair? I fucking needed him. But before the fury can get anywhere, it’s washed away. He’s here now after all. Must have pushed his way past all those self erected barriers that keep him stuck in that flat to get here at all. I had half thought that he’d stay, sitting resolutely at his table, still smoking and drinking, even if the building was falling down around his ears, but he came here, for me.
“Carl?” I try again, surprised at the hoarse, fragile quality to my voice.
A widening of blue eyes, and I can see his chest rise slowly. I think he might move an inch or so towards me, but a nurse, striding quickly past with her mind on some matter of doubtless importance, collides with him, sending him whirling around. I can see the reflex there, that instinct to lash out, animal almost, before he catches himself and backs quickly away before his hand has even risen. I don’t quite know how I could tell what was running through his head in that split second, but I just could…. like how I can now see the ‘fight’ instinct turning into ‘flight’, feet shifting back, twisting around in a quick shuffle as he prepares to bolt. I open my mouth to speak, but someone else intervenes before I can, a hand appearing on his shoulder.
I recognise the gangly figure in the white coat. He’d been here earlier, been surprisingly sympathetic when I’d expected barely-hidden scorn and mutterings about waste of resources, but I have to admit that I’d really been too confused and disoriented to really pay him any proper mind. He’s leaning down, catching Carl’s gaze, and his mouth opens, my ears strain to hear softly spoken words.
“Go on, he needs you.”
Even from a few metres away, I can see that his words have had a pronounced effect. Those blue eyes flicker over to me, then back again. I can see teeth biting down on a reddened lip. He looks bloody lost… but finally he nods, a quick, small movement, and the doctor smiles, pushes him gently in my direction, waiting until he’s faltered his way over to me, sinking down onto a chair with eyes down, before he walks away.
I slowly turn my head; shuffle my fingers nervously against the sheet.
“Hey…what y’lookin’ down there for? ‘m over here.”
My tentative attempt at humour seems to pay off, I’m rewarded with the faint ghost of a smile, and, perhaps more importantly, he looks up off the floor, not quite meeting my eyes, speaks finally after a deep breath.
“How’re you?” The words all blur into one, still blue eyes conveying his concern a thousand times better than the scraps of syllables he’s offered up. I feel stretched thin, like part of me has been stolen and I’m having to cover up the gaps, not quite managing. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me?
His question hangs there, and part of me can help but think - How the bloody hell do you think I am? - but I bite back that reaction. It’s obvious that him being here is a wonder in itself, I don’t want to scare him off with the truth. “’m alright.” I try for a smile. “Could be worse.”
Carl looks haunted for a second, as if I might as well have said ‘Could be dead.’ and I sigh, plan to change the subject, but somehow, quite different words have leapt to the tip of my tongue, fighting to get out.
Do you ever have those moments of incredibly honesty? Where you couldn’t possibly tell a lie to save yourself? Where the truth seems like it would pain you if you were to keep it inside. Well, I do, and it doesn’t half annoy me, seeing as my mouth has lied me safely out of trouble more times than I can count, would hate for me to get one of these moments in a tricky situation. Anyway, this must be one of those moments, it seems the only reason for me glancing up and into Carl’s eyes, speaking in a hushed, broken tone.
“I was scared.” I was. I’ve never wanted to die, after all, and somewhere in that lost nightmare, spinning dreams mixing with panicked voices, sirens, I had realised that I could very easily just slip away. I don’t think I’d ever seen death as a real possibility before that moment. I know, you’d think that I would have. Heroin and death walk hand in hand after all, and I’m closely acquainted with the former. But it’s different, knowing the risks (and paying them no heed), and having to accept the possibility that a twisted drug nightmare will be your last taste of life before you’re pushing up daisy’s in a graveyard somewhere. I remember, before I’d managed to escape into London, I used to have to walk back from school over a motorway bridge. A few times, I’d stopped, staring over the edge, feeling the tugging urge to clamber over the edge, to just jump. Not to kill myself, I’d been fairly happy after all, bored, uninspired….but not troubled in any real way. It was just the most extreme action possible in that second, the one thing that I knew would change my life, one way or the other. But of course, I never took that leap, always backed away after a few long moments, continued on my way.
Heroin was more of the same really. The first time you take it, you know that there is a real possibility that by doing so you are changing your life irrevocably. I don’t know what it is that’s always pulled me towards these singular, jabbing swings against normality. Maybe an early life stuffed full of routines, each day mapped out with clear set lines….but it was never a death wish. Not even the events that lead to me sitting up in this hospital bed. So much of it is a blur….but I know that when I’d reached for the needle it had been to escape from the moment, an ill-thought out, panicked action that I had never even considered could have been one of my last.
I blink back tears, looking up when a firm hand grips my own.
“’m sorry.” He sounds completely sincere, guiltridden, looking almost pained in his concern. I don’t quite understand…does he think that it was him that I’d been scared of? Or….I think back to my wavering memories, his snarling, furious words, a fist lashing out…does he think himself responsible for my overdose?
“What are you sorry about? Wasn’t your fault.”
I don’t allow him to answer, his obvious shock is telling enough, brow furrowed, mouth forming a slight ‘o’. There’s a small, flickering part of me that would quite like to point the finger, parcel off the blame to him for pushing me into my actions. But I know that really, as easy as that would be, it wouldn’t be the truth at all, and not good for either of us. After all, if I hadn’t been high in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have lashed out…and it was my well ingrained reaction to use drugs as my way out that was most to blame. His actions might have given me a push, but it was a push in a direction that I was inevitably heading for. I just didn’t realise that till now…
“No, not your fault.” I force my voice to sound firm.
“But I…”
“No.” I shake my head firmly, perhaps too sharply, as I can feel it start to ache. But then again, it could be caused by the overdose… seems almost like there should be some permanent damage… not an event with all of its consequences and effects fleeting… because then maybe I’ll let it happen again. I can’t help thinking that if I had some sort of reminder, then it would be so much harder to just step back into my previous lifestyle, where I’d just be biding my time until I slip up again. And I don’t want that, don’t want the panic and fear, the blurred half nightmare which I might not come out of if it all repeats itself. I’ve always been lucky, but who knows that my luck won’t run out next time?
Actually, fuck that. Just exactly how am I lucky? That’s what they always say, when you live life teetering on a knife edge, waving arms wildly and just managing to stay balanced. Is that luck, tempting fate and always just managing to snatch, not victory, but some sort of pathetic compromise from the jaws of defeat? Or are the lucky ones those that live a more straightforward life? Kids and jobs and houses, drinks and friends managing not to spill over into debauchery and excess. Maybe they are lucky… but I don’t think that I could ever be them. I like that knife edge existence… but even I have to admit that my grip is seeming too precarious as of late.
I’ve always believed, y’know, that squalor, misery, darkness only make those moments of happiness shine brighter, as if to spite the norm. Romanticised, maybe, all those impoverished poets, authors… scrabbling around in the dirt and coming up with something golden. That had been my goal when I first came to London... spending the money from the job that my caring mother had insisted I slog away at, since I had mentioned my desire to move to the capital, “Everything’s more expensive there, after all. You want to have a fair bit saved away, to get you started”. I spent it in a careless frenzy, handing it away to bartenders, buskers, and dealers. It had to be gone… all of it. Because only then could I begin. I think it only took me two weeks to spend the earnings from a good few years hard graft. Would I do the same again? Well, of course. Wouldn’t change a thing. Rip no pages from the past… but I’m starting to think that I might like a different future.
After all, I went a bit astray, didn’t I? Oh, I got the squalor bit down, but the happiness? The inspiration? No… I traded that in for an armful of numbness and escape. I stopped looking.
Somehow, though, I’d found something despite that. Carl. Passion, which I’ve only had a tantalizingly brief glimpse of, buried down underneath self loathing and carefully constructed walls. Something wonderful, unexpected and undiscovered. Exactly what I’ve been searching for. Exactly what I’ve been running away from.
He’s still looking at me, slight frown on his face. I have to shake it off.
“Penny for yer thoughts, guvnor?”
A slight smile there. I guess my ability to do obnoxiously bad mockney accents must be a sure sign of recovery.
“Oh, this ‘n that. Wondrin’ when you’re gonna get turfed out of here.” That definitely wasn’t what he was thinking… or, it might have occurred to him, but it wasn’t what was weighing heavily on his mind, that was something else…
“Turf me out? A simple soldier boy, injured valiantly fightin’ for Queen and country?” Overblown wounded dignity… check. Accent still in place. And this time he actually laughs, an unexpected sound accompanying an exhaled ‘Pfft’ of incredulity. It’s odd, how I can only really see him clearly in this moment, when he’s been sitting here this whole time.
“I dunno. Been speakin’ t’your superiors. Seems like you’ve been getting yer grubby fingers all over prized poetry books.”
Fuck it…his accent’s even worse than mine. “Nah… bumped that one off a passing tramp. They love their Sassoon, so they do.”
Oh, a glare. Wonder if he knows that he’s pouting though? I wish we could always be like this…
“Really? Annoying little fuckers do too, so I’ve heard.”
Well, isn’t he pleased with himself? Maybe, if I try hard enough, then I can stretch this moment out, wrap myself up in it. Then I won’t need drugs, how could I? But of course, I put my foot in it.
“Oi, better watch that swearing… your family bring you up to talk like that?”
I see the change immediately, the quick snap up of defences. I sigh… if I hadn’t got caught up in my own self-inflicted problems, then maybe I’d know him well enough to avoid these landmines that seem to spring up unannounced in all of our attempts at conversation. Or perhaps better, I’d’ve got to the root of the problem, helped in some way. I cut through the silence, my mouth speaking the conclusion that my mind hasn’t quite reached yet.
“I want to give up heroin.”
There, said. Like I’m some elderly woman who’s just decided to jack in her weekly swing dance classes. As if it won’t be the most difficult, the most terrible ordeal in my life so far.
My blunt statement seems to have bulldozed its way past Carl’s own troubles anyway. Is it ironic, that I’ve shifted the attention back to me again? His hand, that had slackened, but not relinquished its grasp on mine, like he’d forgotten it was there, grips tight once more.
“Really? D’you…” think you can?... that’s what he meant to say, isn’t it? To be honest, I don’t know. Can I manage to go cold turkey, come through the other side? I tried once before… only about a month after I took the drug for the first time, when I first realised that my dreams were slip-sliding away and that I didn’t care, as long as I could have more brown. I lasted three days before I was shivering and sobbing at the door to Wolfie’s flat. It has to be different this time…
“I can.” I sound 99.9% more sure than I am. “If you’ll be there.”
“To… to make sure you don’t get high?” He trips over words, seeming baffled, nervous, a touch of wonder in his voice. I’m not sure exactly what I meant… why I think that having him there will help. I just do… I don’t think it had occurred to me the practical reasons, such as his suggestion. But it makes sense, so I nod.
“Yeah… make sure I don’t do a runner. And, I think… not going it alone might help.” There. A bit closer to the truth, as close as I dare to go.
“I won’t be any use.” He mumbles down at the floor. I can’t see his expression.
“I’m not expecting an expert. Just be there, that’s enough.” He looks up, and he seems bloody devastated, before he pulls himself together, pride and a kind of dignity falling into place as he nods slowly. The silence before he speaks stretches out. I don’t think I’d really thought he’d say yes. Why has he? He must care, more than I thought. But what about me? Why am I so shocked at his response? Had I just been throwing those words out there without proper intention, sure deep down that he’d laugh in my face? Can I really go through with this?
“Okay. I’ll be there.” His words are light, but sure, and he looks me straight in the eye. The doubts whirling about my head choke and still. Suddenly, it all seems so real…
“Carl?”
I blink my eyes, once, twice, scared that this is just one last delusion, although he fails to dematerialise. But at the same time, he looks out of place. His figure, stock still in the middle of hundreds of miniscule movements - hands covering up yawning faces, nurses bustling around, checking charts and patients. Lips slapping together as people talk, expressing relief, condolences, grief. And there he is, in the midst of all this, looking like he’s from another world entirely. Looking too solid to be a ghost, but pale enough under the bright clinical lights to seem like it could just be a possibility. And not a single twitch or tremor, no step forward…or back. Just there staring straight at me, an unreadable expression on his face.
But he can’t be here, can he? Perhaps it isn’t him at all. Maybe it’s like when you’re a kid in the supermarket, running up to your mum and tugging a sleeve only to find a stranger staring back. Senses all layering over each other, showing what you want to see, not what’s really know. Carl couldn’t be here. He doesn’t exist outside of his flat. And the clothes, they’re not right either, too clean, baggy…not tight denim and leather, stained and torn. It’s all wrong, all of it. I almost close my eyes, but I can’t, because as much as it can’t be him, everything else…the important things like those eyes, stormy and deep, tell me that it most certainly is.
I feel a sigh winding its way through my lungs. I feel like I should yell, cry, laugh, smile, all in the same moment, but I can’t decide which to go through with, so the sigh will have to do. His hair is wet, curling at the ends, and I can feel anger rising up unbidden. So was that why he didn’t come with me when I needed him then? Because he wanted to wash his fucking hair? I fucking needed him. But before the fury can get anywhere, it’s washed away. He’s here now after all. Must have pushed his way past all those self erected barriers that keep him stuck in that flat to get here at all. I had half thought that he’d stay, sitting resolutely at his table, still smoking and drinking, even if the building was falling down around his ears, but he came here, for me.
“Carl?” I try again, surprised at the hoarse, fragile quality to my voice.
A widening of blue eyes, and I can see his chest rise slowly. I think he might move an inch or so towards me, but a nurse, striding quickly past with her mind on some matter of doubtless importance, collides with him, sending him whirling around. I can see the reflex there, that instinct to lash out, animal almost, before he catches himself and backs quickly away before his hand has even risen. I don’t quite know how I could tell what was running through his head in that split second, but I just could…. like how I can now see the ‘fight’ instinct turning into ‘flight’, feet shifting back, twisting around in a quick shuffle as he prepares to bolt. I open my mouth to speak, but someone else intervenes before I can, a hand appearing on his shoulder.
I recognise the gangly figure in the white coat. He’d been here earlier, been surprisingly sympathetic when I’d expected barely-hidden scorn and mutterings about waste of resources, but I have to admit that I’d really been too confused and disoriented to really pay him any proper mind. He’s leaning down, catching Carl’s gaze, and his mouth opens, my ears strain to hear softly spoken words.
“Go on, he needs you.”
Even from a few metres away, I can see that his words have had a pronounced effect. Those blue eyes flicker over to me, then back again. I can see teeth biting down on a reddened lip. He looks bloody lost… but finally he nods, a quick, small movement, and the doctor smiles, pushes him gently in my direction, waiting until he’s faltered his way over to me, sinking down onto a chair with eyes down, before he walks away.
I slowly turn my head; shuffle my fingers nervously against the sheet.
“Hey…what y’lookin’ down there for? ‘m over here.”
My tentative attempt at humour seems to pay off, I’m rewarded with the faint ghost of a smile, and, perhaps more importantly, he looks up off the floor, not quite meeting my eyes, speaks finally after a deep breath.
“How’re you?” The words all blur into one, still blue eyes conveying his concern a thousand times better than the scraps of syllables he’s offered up. I feel stretched thin, like part of me has been stolen and I’m having to cover up the gaps, not quite managing. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me?
His question hangs there, and part of me can help but think - How the bloody hell do you think I am? - but I bite back that reaction. It’s obvious that him being here is a wonder in itself, I don’t want to scare him off with the truth. “’m alright.” I try for a smile. “Could be worse.”
Carl looks haunted for a second, as if I might as well have said ‘Could be dead.’ and I sigh, plan to change the subject, but somehow, quite different words have leapt to the tip of my tongue, fighting to get out.
Do you ever have those moments of incredibly honesty? Where you couldn’t possibly tell a lie to save yourself? Where the truth seems like it would pain you if you were to keep it inside. Well, I do, and it doesn’t half annoy me, seeing as my mouth has lied me safely out of trouble more times than I can count, would hate for me to get one of these moments in a tricky situation. Anyway, this must be one of those moments, it seems the only reason for me glancing up and into Carl’s eyes, speaking in a hushed, broken tone.
“I was scared.” I was. I’ve never wanted to die, after all, and somewhere in that lost nightmare, spinning dreams mixing with panicked voices, sirens, I had realised that I could very easily just slip away. I don’t think I’d ever seen death as a real possibility before that moment. I know, you’d think that I would have. Heroin and death walk hand in hand after all, and I’m closely acquainted with the former. But it’s different, knowing the risks (and paying them no heed), and having to accept the possibility that a twisted drug nightmare will be your last taste of life before you’re pushing up daisy’s in a graveyard somewhere. I remember, before I’d managed to escape into London, I used to have to walk back from school over a motorway bridge. A few times, I’d stopped, staring over the edge, feeling the tugging urge to clamber over the edge, to just jump. Not to kill myself, I’d been fairly happy after all, bored, uninspired….but not troubled in any real way. It was just the most extreme action possible in that second, the one thing that I knew would change my life, one way or the other. But of course, I never took that leap, always backed away after a few long moments, continued on my way.
Heroin was more of the same really. The first time you take it, you know that there is a real possibility that by doing so you are changing your life irrevocably. I don’t know what it is that’s always pulled me towards these singular, jabbing swings against normality. Maybe an early life stuffed full of routines, each day mapped out with clear set lines….but it was never a death wish. Not even the events that lead to me sitting up in this hospital bed. So much of it is a blur….but I know that when I’d reached for the needle it had been to escape from the moment, an ill-thought out, panicked action that I had never even considered could have been one of my last.
I blink back tears, looking up when a firm hand grips my own.
“’m sorry.” He sounds completely sincere, guiltridden, looking almost pained in his concern. I don’t quite understand…does he think that it was him that I’d been scared of? Or….I think back to my wavering memories, his snarling, furious words, a fist lashing out…does he think himself responsible for my overdose?
“What are you sorry about? Wasn’t your fault.”
I don’t allow him to answer, his obvious shock is telling enough, brow furrowed, mouth forming a slight ‘o’. There’s a small, flickering part of me that would quite like to point the finger, parcel off the blame to him for pushing me into my actions. But I know that really, as easy as that would be, it wouldn’t be the truth at all, and not good for either of us. After all, if I hadn’t been high in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have lashed out…and it was my well ingrained reaction to use drugs as my way out that was most to blame. His actions might have given me a push, but it was a push in a direction that I was inevitably heading for. I just didn’t realise that till now…
“No, not your fault.” I force my voice to sound firm.
“But I…”
“No.” I shake my head firmly, perhaps too sharply, as I can feel it start to ache. But then again, it could be caused by the overdose… seems almost like there should be some permanent damage… not an event with all of its consequences and effects fleeting… because then maybe I’ll let it happen again. I can’t help thinking that if I had some sort of reminder, then it would be so much harder to just step back into my previous lifestyle, where I’d just be biding my time until I slip up again. And I don’t want that, don’t want the panic and fear, the blurred half nightmare which I might not come out of if it all repeats itself. I’ve always been lucky, but who knows that my luck won’t run out next time?
Actually, fuck that. Just exactly how am I lucky? That’s what they always say, when you live life teetering on a knife edge, waving arms wildly and just managing to stay balanced. Is that luck, tempting fate and always just managing to snatch, not victory, but some sort of pathetic compromise from the jaws of defeat? Or are the lucky ones those that live a more straightforward life? Kids and jobs and houses, drinks and friends managing not to spill over into debauchery and excess. Maybe they are lucky… but I don’t think that I could ever be them. I like that knife edge existence… but even I have to admit that my grip is seeming too precarious as of late.
I’ve always believed, y’know, that squalor, misery, darkness only make those moments of happiness shine brighter, as if to spite the norm. Romanticised, maybe, all those impoverished poets, authors… scrabbling around in the dirt and coming up with something golden. That had been my goal when I first came to London... spending the money from the job that my caring mother had insisted I slog away at, since I had mentioned my desire to move to the capital, “Everything’s more expensive there, after all. You want to have a fair bit saved away, to get you started”. I spent it in a careless frenzy, handing it away to bartenders, buskers, and dealers. It had to be gone… all of it. Because only then could I begin. I think it only took me two weeks to spend the earnings from a good few years hard graft. Would I do the same again? Well, of course. Wouldn’t change a thing. Rip no pages from the past… but I’m starting to think that I might like a different future.
After all, I went a bit astray, didn’t I? Oh, I got the squalor bit down, but the happiness? The inspiration? No… I traded that in for an armful of numbness and escape. I stopped looking.
Somehow, though, I’d found something despite that. Carl. Passion, which I’ve only had a tantalizingly brief glimpse of, buried down underneath self loathing and carefully constructed walls. Something wonderful, unexpected and undiscovered. Exactly what I’ve been searching for. Exactly what I’ve been running away from.
He’s still looking at me, slight frown on his face. I have to shake it off.
“Penny for yer thoughts, guvnor?”
A slight smile there. I guess my ability to do obnoxiously bad mockney accents must be a sure sign of recovery.
“Oh, this ‘n that. Wondrin’ when you’re gonna get turfed out of here.” That definitely wasn’t what he was thinking… or, it might have occurred to him, but it wasn’t what was weighing heavily on his mind, that was something else…
“Turf me out? A simple soldier boy, injured valiantly fightin’ for Queen and country?” Overblown wounded dignity… check. Accent still in place. And this time he actually laughs, an unexpected sound accompanying an exhaled ‘Pfft’ of incredulity. It’s odd, how I can only really see him clearly in this moment, when he’s been sitting here this whole time.
“I dunno. Been speakin’ t’your superiors. Seems like you’ve been getting yer grubby fingers all over prized poetry books.”
Fuck it…his accent’s even worse than mine. “Nah… bumped that one off a passing tramp. They love their Sassoon, so they do.”
Oh, a glare. Wonder if he knows that he’s pouting though? I wish we could always be like this…
“Really? Annoying little fuckers do too, so I’ve heard.”
Well, isn’t he pleased with himself? Maybe, if I try hard enough, then I can stretch this moment out, wrap myself up in it. Then I won’t need drugs, how could I? But of course, I put my foot in it.
“Oi, better watch that swearing… your family bring you up to talk like that?”
I see the change immediately, the quick snap up of defences. I sigh… if I hadn’t got caught up in my own self-inflicted problems, then maybe I’d know him well enough to avoid these landmines that seem to spring up unannounced in all of our attempts at conversation. Or perhaps better, I’d’ve got to the root of the problem, helped in some way. I cut through the silence, my mouth speaking the conclusion that my mind hasn’t quite reached yet.
“I want to give up heroin.”
There, said. Like I’m some elderly woman who’s just decided to jack in her weekly swing dance classes. As if it won’t be the most difficult, the most terrible ordeal in my life so far.
My blunt statement seems to have bulldozed its way past Carl’s own troubles anyway. Is it ironic, that I’ve shifted the attention back to me again? His hand, that had slackened, but not relinquished its grasp on mine, like he’d forgotten it was there, grips tight once more.
“Really? D’you…” think you can?... that’s what he meant to say, isn’t it? To be honest, I don’t know. Can I manage to go cold turkey, come through the other side? I tried once before… only about a month after I took the drug for the first time, when I first realised that my dreams were slip-sliding away and that I didn’t care, as long as I could have more brown. I lasted three days before I was shivering and sobbing at the door to Wolfie’s flat. It has to be different this time…
“I can.” I sound 99.9% more sure than I am. “If you’ll be there.”
“To… to make sure you don’t get high?” He trips over words, seeming baffled, nervous, a touch of wonder in his voice. I’m not sure exactly what I meant… why I think that having him there will help. I just do… I don’t think it had occurred to me the practical reasons, such as his suggestion. But it makes sense, so I nod.
“Yeah… make sure I don’t do a runner. And, I think… not going it alone might help.” There. A bit closer to the truth, as close as I dare to go.
“I won’t be any use.” He mumbles down at the floor. I can’t see his expression.
“I’m not expecting an expert. Just be there, that’s enough.” He looks up, and he seems bloody devastated, before he pulls himself together, pride and a kind of dignity falling into place as he nods slowly. The silence before he speaks stretches out. I don’t think I’d really thought he’d say yes. Why has he? He must care, more than I thought. But what about me? Why am I so shocked at his response? Had I just been throwing those words out there without proper intention, sure deep down that he’d laugh in my face? Can I really go through with this?
“Okay. I’ll be there.” His words are light, but sure, and he looks me straight in the eye. The doubts whirling about my head choke and still. Suddenly, it all seems so real…