Hitting the Bottom Ch. 01

The truth is I'm feeling miserable. But then I deserve every bit of my misery.

"It's okay".

She looks skeptical , but doesn't argue. Instead she squeezes my shoulder lightly before stepping back.

"All right Mr. Moreno. Let me know if that changes. I'll be back to check up on you periodically. In the meantime please do not try to move too much and definitely do not try to get out of bed by yourself. Ring me if you need anything, all right?"

"Okay. Th-thank you."

She nods curtly at me and places the call button on the mattress next to my pillow before she turns and walks away, rolling her cart behind her. I follow her out with my eyes. Her blond ponytail swings side-to-side in time to the sway of her curvy hips with her quick, purposeful steps, moving on towards the exit to get to the next room where other patients await her care.

She reaches the door just as Jon reappears there, and steps aside to let him pass. He stops in front of her and I can hear their low-voiced conversation in the otherwise quiet ward.

"How's he doing?"

"He has a mild-to-moderate concussion; It'll take time for the swelling in his brain to subside and for his cracked bones to heal, but with proper rest it shouldn't take too long; probably a few weeks. The doctors will see him in the morning but my guess would be we keep him here for another day or two for observation before sending him home to rest."

"So soon? He was out cold for fifteen hours or so; this doesn't sound like a mild concussion to me."

"The CT scan indicates some brain trauma but not too severe. The reason he didn't wake up earlier was probably due to the high level of blood alcohol and the mix of drugs he took; his toxins screen was all over the place. But we applied charcoal and pumped his stomach, and his liver and kidneys seem to have withstood the challenge well enough. He will be fine, sir."

"SHIT! Sorry ma'am, I just -- I didn't realize he was under the influence of drugs and alcohol last night."

"Please, call me Sandra. And 'under the influence' would be a gross understatement. To put it plainly he would have died of an overdose if he wasn't brought in. He's very lucky to be alive, but he's going to be all right, physically speaking."

"Fuck... Wait, what do you mean, 'physically speaking'?"

"Well... I'm no mental health expert so please don't take this as a professional advice, just a layperson's observation but... the amount of drugs and alcohol he took last night -- I don't think it was accidental, sir."

"It's Jon. My name is Jon."

"All right, Jon. I don't think your friend took that many pills and drank that much hard liquor by accident."

"Are - are you saying he tried to kill himself last night?"

"I don't know. All I'm saying is that's a possibility to be considered."

There's a stretch of silence before I hear Jon's voice again, mumbling back at her --

"All right. Thank you, ma'am - Sandra. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Jon. Take care."

I hear the cart squeaking as Sandra walks away and Jon's slow, hesitant footsteps as he approaches me, his face looking grim. He stops at the foot of the bed and stares down at me in silence. I stare back. There's nowhere to hide, but then there's nothing to hide anymore. He knows everything.

He averts his eyes first looking up as if searching for divine intervention, then inhales sharply and walks over back to his chair and sits down, forearms on knees again, looking down at his hands for long awkward moments before lifting his eyes to mine once more.

"So you think killing yourself would fix it? You think it would exonerate you from what you did to Naomi?"

His words are like a dull knife slicing my guts open. I look down, surprised there's no actual blood pooling down my torso; the pain feels so real. I lift my eyes to his again.

"It's the only way to make sure I never hurt her -- or anyone else -- ever again."

Jon's head snaps back, his eyes wide and his mouth parted open with his shocked gasp. He shuts it a second later, both hands burying themselves in his hair, his knuckles turning white when his grip tightens, his palms half-covering his face. A frustrated growl rises from his throat. When he drops his hands a moment later and returns his eyes to mine it's me who's shocked breathless. Jon's eyes are red and brimming with unshed tears.

I've never seen him cry.

"What happened, Dan?" His voice is a thick. "I mean, I know you were upset when you heard the news about Naomi moving on, but -- what happened?"

How can I explain it to him when I cannot explain it to myself?

"I don't know, Jon. I don't know what happened."

He keeps looking at me with that tortured expression on his face. "Please, Dan. It's me. I need a better answer from you man. I'm so mad at you for what you did to Naomi I had every intention of breaking every single bone in your body last night. But then - I know you. And what you did -- that's NOT who you are. And I need for you to help me understand it. I need for you to tell me how my best friend and my partner who I'd trust my life with could be a fucking wife-beater. Could be a rapist."

His hands gesture frantically. I watch them, distracted. It's the sound of urgency in his voice that pulls my attention back to what he's telling me.

"I need to know what happened Dan. It's the only way I could possibly figure out how to help you. I hate you right now with every fiber in my body. I really do. But I don't want you dead. It won't fix anything; it would only make it worse. I want... I want you back from wherever it is you've gone off to. Please, please tell me what happened."

My throbbing brain rejects his words. He can't mean it. He can't mean that he wants to help me. He can't mean that he wants me 'back' -- I don't want me back. I want me gone. But I cannot ignore the desperate plea in his voice and in his eyes. I owe him this, at least. I start speaking, not sure what I'm going to say but just letting the words roll out.

"I-I think it started just after our divorce. Once Naomi took that relocation offer and moved away... I never thought she'd do something like that. Never thought she'd just cut loose and leave. It... it shook me bad. I think in my heart I still thought we could get back together at some point... Her leaving the country was the first time I felt like I really and truly lost control of my life."

Jon is listening. At least I'm able to give him some of the answers he's looking for. I continue.

"Then last year -- you know, my father was dying and I was spending all that time by his bedside, and one day he grabbed my hand and out of the blue he told me: 'I was wrong to make you choose between Naomi and the family. I never thought it would hurt you so bad. I'm sorry'. I was blown away, you know? I mean, having a grandson to keep the family line and its name has always been the utmost goal. He's drilled that into me ever since I can remember myself. 'It was my responsibility to produce a son and I did, but it would all be in vain if you don't do your part, too. Do not disappoint me!'"

I shake my head at the memory. "I don't know if I ever told you this. He was an only child himself and had only female cousins from his one uncle on his father's side. Everyone in his family -- his parents and grandparents, his uncle -- they all saw him as the family 'savior' because he delivered a son -- me -- to carry the name into future generations. And he took it upon himself to make sure I did the same. That I didn't fuck it up."

Jon nods grimly. "I figured it was something like that when you divorced Naomi after ten years of marriage without children. And much as I'd like to pretend it wouldn't have mattered to me if I were in your place, truth is it probably would have. While I have two brothers of my own, my older brother has only girls and my younger brother's just got married , so no kids yet. I can still remember my father's tremendous pride and joy when my son was born, the first male grandson after three granddaughters. He was beside himself; kept saying things like 'the first Leonidas grandchild at long last!'. I shrugged it off, but can only imagine how hard it would have been to live with his disappointment if it had been different."

I shoot Jon a grateful look. "Yeah. Exactly. So to hear him say that... to have him apologize to me for pressuring me to divorce Naomi, telling me he was sorry... It was a shock." I shrug helplessly as I remember the profound impact those few words had on me.

"He died three days later and we never got to talk more about it, but in my mind it... cleared the way for getting back together with Naomi. But then I knew that it was not gonna happen, that I hurt her too badly when I chose my family obligations over her. That I wronged her beyond forgiveness when I decided to divorce her because of her inability to produce me a son. And that just... drove me nuts. That 'what could've been' kept running in circles in my head and was just eating me up alive. It felt like I was free-falling inside this bottomless pit and there was nothing to stop the fall. I was just gonna keep falling forever."

Jon nods wordlessly; He'd witnessed my descent in the past year and was helpless to stop it, and probably hadn't realized the extent of my depression, which I'm only now starting to recognize myself. I was still functioning at work so they all pretty much assumed I just needed some more time to get my personal shit together. That's what I've been telling myself, too. How wrong we all were.

"Then last week at your place when Annie told me about Naomi finally moving on, giving herself to a new Dom... I just... That's when I hit the bottom, Jon. I hit it so hard the impact just... shattered me. Something in my mind just snapped and I -- I lost control completely. I remember everything I did after that so I know it was really me who did it. But it feels like it was somebody else. Like I was... I don't know. Obsessed or something. I couldn't stop myself; I just... lost it."

Jon is silent again, looking at me somberly. Finally he speaks. "You need to see a shrink."

I wince. "Too little, too late. Too much damage already done."

He scowls at me. "So what's your solution? Jumping off a bridge?"

I steadily hold his gaze. "It'd work. I can't go around beating up and raping people when I'm dead."

Jon's scowl deepens and I can see the muscles in his jaw flex as he grinds his teeth. He looks frustrated, but surprisingly enough it doesn't really bother me as it usually would. Somehow right now I feel detached from it all. I watch as he opens and closes his mouth trying to formulate a rebuke until finally he speaks again.

"How do you think it would make Naomi feel when she hears you've gone and killed yourself? Have you thought about that?"

I close my eyes, picturing it in my mind. Of course I thought about it. It's the main reason I did what I did.

"Relieved, Jon. She'd be relieved. She'd be able to feel safe again. I can still do that for her, if nothing else. It won't undo the damage I've already caused, but at least I can guarantee her a safe future."

"God but you're such an idiot."

My eyes fly open and re-focus on Jon. He looks pissed. I just stare at him in confusion.

"You were married to her for a decade, Dan. You know her inside and out. Do you really believe that's how she'd feel when she hears you killed yourself after you assaulted her? Is that what she told you when you said your goodbyes at the airport? 'Fuck you Dan, go kill yourself'?"

My heartbeat is picking up and I feel sweaty again. I haven't replayed that part of it in my mind; the movie in my head is stuck in a loop on my attack and rewinds as soon as it ends. But I make a conscious effort to remember the rest of it now, to recall her last words to me just before I boarded the plane...

"Just promise me you'd never, ever do anything as... as stupid and as careless as this again, Dan. If Rye hadn't come when he did... I never could forgive you. Ever. I'm still not sure if I can... but I'll try, all right? And please, please move on. Find your own happiness and let me have mine, all right?"

I look back at Jon. "No she didn't tell me to go kill myself. She told me to 'move on' and 'be happy' and that she'd 'try to forgive me'. But that's not because I deserve it, Jon. It's because of who she is. Because she's too kind and too generous and too fucking good. She should have told me to go kill myself. You and I both know that's what I deserve."

"I didn't ask you how you thought she should feel about it, Dan. To be honest your thoughts are completely irrelevant right now since you fucking lost your mind. I asked you to imagine how Naomi would feel when she hears word of your suicide." He's glaring at me again. His voice is gaining momentum. He looks furious.

"Now I may not know Naomi as well as you do but I know her well enough. I'll tell you how she'd feel, Dan. She'd feel guilty. She'd feel like it was somehow her fault that you got to this point. That it was her fault not to keep taking care of you like she always did, even after you divorced her. That it was her fault you'd gone off and killed yourself after attacking her. You want revenge Dan? Go ahead, kill yourself. That would kill any hope for future happiness in her life, too. Is that what you want?"

I close my eyes shut and shake my head trying to deny his words, but the truth in them rings like a fire bell in my ears. But all Jon can see is my refusal to listen so he pushes on.

"You wanna know how I know that, Dan? How I know that's how she'd feel?"

I open my eyes and just look at him, finally managing to push a word out. "How?"

Jon looks me straight in the eyes and I can't escape the hurt I see in his. The hurt I caused. "I know because that's how I feel. I feel like I failed you. I failed you as your friend and as your partner. I should have noticed you needed help months ago. I should have been able to prevent all this mess from happening. Some lousy friend I make."

I shake my head slowly. "You saved my life last night Jon. You're here right now. You're trying to help me even after I did what I did. You're a fucking saint!" I gulp and finish under my breath -- "and I don't deserve you."

Suddenly I feel like I cannot breathe, I'm too overwhelmed by it all. I can't continue this conversation. I'm bone-tired and the throbbing pain in my head intensifies so much I can't even think anymore. The darkness beckons again and I can't keep my eyes open but I manage to push it down and mumble:

"Go home Jon. Go to your wife and your kids; you should spend your time with them, not with a deadbeat loser like me. Just go."

"Look at me Dan. Open your eyes and look at me."

I crack them open and see his face, drawn and grey and as tired as I'm feeling inside.

"Just promise me not to kill yourself before we speak again, okay? Promise me Dan. I'll be back to see you tomorrow but I need you to promise me not to try anything until then or I can't go home to my wife and kids. Promise."

Closing my eyes again I nod. I know when I'm beat. "Okay Jon. I promise. Now go away."

Jon gets up and walks out of the room without saying another word, leaving me to wallow in my misery alone once more.

*

The next morning an older, motherly-looking nurse comes in and introduces herself as Hanna before hooking up a drip into my right arm.

"Your tests indicate you're quite dehydrated, Mr. Moreno. We need to get some fluids into you, and this will also make managing your pain and nausea easier because we can just give you the medicine via your drip without having to wake you up to take the pills."

I just nod. She isn't asking me for permission; she's simply telling me what she's doing. I don't argue. It occurs to me that not only am I dehydrated but also I haven't eaten anything for a couple of days, but I don't feel any hunger and the thought of food makes me want to puke again. I push it down by breathing deeply through my nose.

I try to decline breakfast when it arrives a half-hour later but Nurse Hanna would have none of that. "You need to eat, Mr. Moreno, or you'll only be stuck in here longer. And if we don't get some calories into you the traditional way I'm afraid we'll need to use some more tubes and needles and things, and I'm sure that's not what you want. Now let me help you up a little in your bed and get you some sweet tea to start with."

I nod again and croak: "All right, fine."

Hanna puts the tray off to the side on the little bedside cart and presses a button on the side panel. A low whirring sound rises from behind my back as the head of the bed is being slowly pushed up to a reclining position. The movement is slow and smooth enough not to cause too much jarring or dizziness and Hanna has her hand pressed down securely on my shoulder keeping me flat against the bed as it adjusts.

"There, that's much better. Now, with the sutures in your lips you can't really eat any solids just yet, so what I've got for you here is some yogurt and hot cereal, which I hope you can manage. But let's start with the tea -- it's not really hot, more like lukewarm, and there's a straw here for you if you prefer that."

This is pathetic.

I grimace but nod. The smell of food makes me queasy but at the same time I feel my stomach rumble. Under the nurse's watchful gaze I take a hesitant sip of the strong, sweet, tepid tea through the straw and am shocked by how good it is. I slurp it all in a few hearty draws, grunting with satisfaction as I feel the liquid sooth my dry, itchy throat and take the edge of the ache off my way-too-empty stomach.

"God that's good."

I don't realize I said it out loud until I hear Hanna's chuckle. "Glad you approve, Mr. Moreno. I'll go and fetch you another cup while you start on the food. Please go slowly, you don't have to finish it all right now -- that could backfire on you if you haven't had any food in a while. But I promise a few spoonfuls would make you feel like a man again."

She turns to go and get that other cup of tea, unaware of the devastating impact her last few words delivered. It feels like she just punched me in the stomach.

I don't think I'll ever feel like a man again.

I stare at the food in front of me, all traces of hunger gone. I briefly consider picking the tray up and putting it aside but the risk of dropping it and making a huge mess is too big. I contemplate the limited offering on the tray. There's the plain white yogurt in its sealed plastic container and a small bowl of cereal and a packet of sugar. There's also a small plastic spoon, but nothing else. I wonder if the lack of utensils is due to the type of food that's on the tray or if they're trying to keep sharp objects out of my reach.

Dammit!

It dawns on me that if they think I'm still suicidal they could get me locked up in a mental ward or something. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow, but I promised Jon I won't kill myself today. And as long as I'm here I don't want to be locked up in the psychiatric department, even if that's where I belong. Besides, I remember Nurse Hanna's warning about what would happen if I didn't eat. Getting food via a tube inserted through my nose doesn't hold any appeal.

I pick up the plastic spoon and force myself to eat some of the cereal. It tastes like wet cardboard and any movement in my mouth hurts. I deserve my misery. Ignoring both sensations I sprinkle some sugar into the bowl and eat five more bites before Nurse Hanna reappears with the blessed second cup of tea.