When I opened my eyes, I was no longer at home. It was light, far too light. I closed my eyes again and now I noticed how incredibly bad I was. Shit, where was I?
At some point I heard a door open and opened my eyes. A young woman entered the room and slowly I realized where I was. Fuck.
"Are we awake?" she said gently with a slight smile when she saw that I was looking at her.
"Where am I?"
"In the hospital." She checked something on the bag hanging over me. My eyes went to my arm and of course there was a needle in it. You could see my scars, but I couldn't care less.
"I think I have to throw up." The next moment I had a kind of plastic bucket on my lap that I just threw up into. The nurse was helping me to stay seated. When I was done she just took the bucket away, while I tried to not just fall back into the pillow. I buried my hands in my hair.
I slowly remembered what happened a few hours ago.
"Do you need something, kiddo?" she asked and I shook my head.
"Why am I here?"
"You passed out. Has something to do with the drug. Triggered an overreaction in you, to put it simply."
"I didn't take drugs." I said sheepishly, as if anyone here believed me. I looked over at her a little unobtrusively, whereupon she just smiled at me sadly. "I fucked up."
"We all do stupid things." she tried to calm me down or cheer me up somehow. I tried to nod.
"Can I go home?"
"Rather not until tomorrow." she replied. "I'll let your father know you're awake."
Oh shit. A situation from which I couldn't save myself or talk myself out of it. Maybe I should just pass out again.
The nurse left my room and I was left alone on the bed.
Now the moment would have come when I would have pulled my sleeves down if I had them. Maybe I should just endure it.
Some time later my father entered the room and I wanted to bury myself under the covers. I could already feel the tears in my eyes and almost couldn't breathe.
"How are you feeling?" He asked as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"Like shit." I mumbled and tugged on the blanket. I didn't look at him, I couldn't. None of us said anything. In my head I only remembered the hours before when I almost punched my own dad for something he had nothing to do with.
I bit my lip, trying to hold the emotional back somehow. I didn't want to cry.
"Please don't hate me." I said at some point. The lump in my throat hurt and it wouldn't get better if I didn't start crying. So I just started and was just glad that my dad and I were alone in the room. "Please."
"Jesus Christ, Dan, of course I don't hate you!" He said and took me in his arms without a problem. I just let it go, let him hug me like I was a little child who just fell. And cried out everything.
"I'm sorry." And I said that about a hundred times and still it wasn't enough. Because what the hell was I like for a son? A son that drank, smoked, took drugs, almost hits his own father. A son who was psychologically completely fucked up and couldn't control his behavior properly. My dad kept telling me it was okay, but fuck him, it wasn't okay.
It had happened, there was nothing you could do about it, but it wasn't fucking okay.
"What did you think you were doing? Why did you take that stuff?"
"I dunno, Dad." He looked at me sadly. "Where's Addy?"
"At home. Phil stayed with her." Oh shit, Phil. "Do you want to see him?"
I find myself playing with the blanket and slowly nodding.
"All right, I make sure that he comes. Do you want to eat something? Do you need anything?"
I really wouldn't refuse a headshot. I wanted to delete the night.
"I didn't mean the things I said. I didn't want to hurt you, I didn't want to hurt anyone. I don't know what the hell was going on with me."
"I know, son." My father assured me and tried to smile warmly at me.
Then he left the room again and left me alone, whereupon I laid down again. I didn't need anything, no coffee, no tea, no food. Simply disappearing would do me good now. Having nothing to do with the whole thing would do me good.
God, why did I eat these damn gross mushrooms? That was one of the stupidest things I've ever done in my entire life. I hadn't been as angry as I was last night for while now. Maybe I have never been as angry as I was last night.
I saw the time passing and just waited for Phil to come through the door. Maybe he didn't want to see me at all, for which I had complete understanding. I was a horrible boyfriend.
My guess wasn't confirmed because about twenty minutes later Phil was standing in front of my bed. No idea if he didn't want to sit down or if he just didn't dare. He looked tired.
"You look like shit." he said at some point and bit his lip.
"You too." I mumbled and felt that familiar lump in my throat again. "I don't know what to say." I said honestly.
"Same."
"You're mad."
"No." He shook his head. "I have no right to be mad at you."
"Why the fuck do you not have the right?"
"Because I understand it." he said after a while. "I was like that too some time ago."
"It doesn't matter. That doesn't give me the right to be the biggest asshole in the world."
"You had a breakdown."
"Yes, holy fuck I had. It doesn't matter." Phil looked at me sadly, I sat up again. I wasn't as bad as this morning. Maybe it's because of the stuff that they pump into me.
"You scared the shit out of me." It sounded like a confession. As if he'd thought a thousand times before saying it. It sounded bitter, but still not mad.
"I know. I'm sorry." I apologized. "I'm so fucking sorry, I saw it in your eyes and I just kept going. I am so sorry."
I felt my eyes fill with tears. However, I was incredibly relieved when Phil finally got over and sat on the bed with me. He ran his hand through his hair.
"Where the hell did you have that stuff from?" he asked.
"From some guy, I don't know."
"Some guy? Dan, you can't just-"
"I know Phil. I know." I mumbled, looking at the ceiling hoping my tears would stay in my head." I think I hallucinated. That's why I got so mad. The drugs made everything worse than it was before."
Phil raised his head and looked at me. He frowned.
"What did you see?" He asked with a worried look.
"It doesn't matter." I didn't want to go into that and so he left the topic too.
"Are you staying with me?" I asked automatically at some point. Phil looked at me in confusion for a moment, until he understood the question. He leaned over and kissed my forehead.
"Of course."
I exhaled in relief and Phil took me in his arms. Maybe I would have cried, but suddenly it didn't really hurt anymore. At that moment it felt kind of okay, even though it wasn't even a bit okay.
"Why?" I asked at some point. "Why are you staying with me? It's a nightmare."
I broke away from him and noticed a tear that had left my eye. I quickly wiped them away.
"Because I see more in you than this sad boy. You are more than that. You aren't just this horrible story. You're more than that, you just have to find this something. I'll help you find it." I swallowed hard. I have no idea how I could deserve him. He stroked my hair. "And I'm going to tell you something that will upset you. You have to go to therapy. It's not a want, Dan. You gotta do it. You can't do it alone."
"I know." I always knew, but I had no belief that someone else could fix it. "I don't want that anymore."
"Will you try then?" I didn't want to. I really didn't. I didn't respond. "I've also been to the therapy before."
"Seriously?" I asked in suprise.
"Sure."
"You never said anything about that."
"We don't like to talk about that, do we?" I swallowed hard. "But I can talk about it with you. And you can talk to me about it. I can come with you if you want." He drew small circles onto my leg with his finger.
"Okay."
***
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