Rock Bottom

Sep 08, 2010 23:36



Title: Rock Bottom

Characters: Jason Morgan and Damian Spinelli

Words: 1024

Rating: K

Challenge 43: Recovery


The rain fell, no it stabbed, it pulsed, it attacked.  Down it came in icy droplets by the incalculable thousands piercing every inch of his exposed skin.  His face, his hands, and his bare neck were all besieged.  He stared unseeingly across the harbor not noting the discomfort, not registering his body’s vain attempts to warm itself by shivering vigorously.  Passers by could be forgiven for mistaking him for a statue, a life like representation entitled ‘Despair’ perhaps.

Time was irrelevant but some bodily functions couldn’t be discounted.  It was a sharp sensation of cramp which finally aroused him from his near catatonic state.  He had been stationary for so long that finally his left calf muscles failed in their duty and clenched in a painful and unrelenting rigor.  Cursing, he exhaled white clouds of steam that had less to do with temperature and more with humidity.

He stomped the leg, the pain inescapable as he tottered and nearly escalated the situation by falling into the icy, dark waters of the harbor.  “Careful,” the gruff voice was accompanied by a strong arm which wrapped itself around his chest and forcibly hauled him back from the edge of the dock.  “You okay?” The question was terse but he knew the intense glance which accompanied it would have an underpinning of concern.

He nodded speechlessly, water droplets flying indiscriminately from his hair, skin and soaked clothing.  The white hot needles of agony were receding, only leaving behind a calling card of dull muscular ache.  He scrubbed at his face and rubbed his eyes so fiercely that he caused sparks of color to flare and die across the closed lids like some sort of miniature fireworks show.  Still, he stubbornly refused to meet his savior’s eyes.

The unseen arm shifted, wrapping itself around his waist and he was about to protest, to claim he had no need for the proffered support when he realized that would be a blatant lie.  His legs were quivering with exhaustion, the cramp a preliminary warning that meant ‘pay attention, collapse is imminent’.  It was true, he realized with a weary inevitability, without that strong arm holding him up he would be laid out on the rough dock surface, a puddle indistinguishable from the rest.

“When was the last time you ate?”  The voice asked the well worn question with resignation, it was a catechism familiar to both of them.  This was the second official question in the litany.  The first answered with mendacity and the second with an evasion, as he simply responded with a shrug.

His companion sighed and shifted his own weight so that he could better accommodate his unappreciative burden. “Kelly’s then,” he pronounced with inarguable resolve.

They entered the diner, side by dripping side.  With a grunt of relief, the older man released his grip on the boy who fell freely from his arms.  He dropped away without protest, not truly caring if there was anything that would intervene before he collided with the floor.  Yet, the other troubled to care enough for both of them and that meant he landed safely in a diner chair.

His coat was unceremoniously stripped off and his face gripped in two rough, unyielding palms as he was finally forced to look up into a pair of brilliant blue eyes.  For a long moment, blue and bloodshot green examined one another until with a relieved sigh the hands dropped reluctantly away.

“I haven’t been,” he muttered rebelliously, speaking for the first time.

“I’m glad,” was the jaded response, “But you know I can’t just take your word for it.”  The stark truth of the statement highlighted the broken trust which limned every interaction between the two men.

The food arrived.  He had ordered soup, salad, a grilled cheese sandwich, an orange soda and an ice cream sundae, all of which were now arrayed before the boy like a sacrificial offering to the dead of soul.

“I can’t,” he said as bile rose into his mouth, the bitter flavor contaminating the very thought of eating.  “I simply can’t,” it was a plea now rather than a protest.

The man across the table ran his hand through his hair in pained frustration, his face was lined and weary and he looked at the boy with fear in his eyes.  “You have to eat,” he insisted stubbornly, the unsaid portion of his sentence was left to linger in the air between them ‘or you’ll die’.

He responded with a sharp yelp of laughter, a sob disguised as bitter humor.  With reluctance, he reached for the spoon and decided to begin with the soup.  He reasoned with what was left of his cognition that liquid might go down easier, and if need be, make the return journey with a similar effortlessness.

The other looked away, he knew better than to stare, to antagonize or embarrass with his overt worry, neither would end well.  He thought dully of the long night awaiting both of them.  First would be the necessary bath or shower to warm him up, followed by the pretense of trying to sleep.  That was a fallacy well known to both of them.  Perhaps they might eventually fall into mutually exhausted comas around four o’clock in the morning.  Then, in a few all too short hours, he would awaken with tremors and nausea and together they would face a new day which would be a clone of both today and the next tomorrow to come.

As they stood to go, the boy pulled the white chip out of the pocket of his sodden canvas jacket.  He gazed reflectively at it for a moment and then looked up at his friend, unshed tears coating his eyes, “How am I ever going to manage another twenty-five days of this until I receive my next chip?”  He asked hopelessly.

Without hesitation, he was pulled into a hug against the warm, broad, comforting chest which had yet to ever fail him, “One day at a time, one day at a time,” the words of the fervent mantra were breathed out into his hair and for a brief blessed moment, peace reigned.

angst, gh, jaspin, general hospital, jason and spinelli

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