Page 21 of Puck Me

“You were right to refer him to me. I wish I could do more to help, but we have to wait for him to reach out to us. You know that forcing yourself on a patient is going to do more harm than good. Unless he’s given us recent evidence that he’s actively suicidal, we need to let him come to us.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right. Of course, you are. I just… it’s really difficult.”

“I can see you’re having a hard time with it. I’ve got one more patient to see, and then I’m done for the day. How about we go out for dinner? Maybe it’ll be a good distraction.”

“That would actually be nice. Thanks, Olivia.”

I try to go about my day, catching up on paperwork, but Chester lurks in the corners of my mind. As much as I attempt to focus, he’s there, drawing my attention.

I worry for him, and not being able to do anything about it makes me feel helpless and useless. I remind myself that there’s nothing I can do until he reaches out.

I can only hope that if he really needs to, he will make the call. The alternative is unthinkable.

7

Chester

I’m two blocks away from the hospital when I realize that I actually have no idea where I’m going. All I want is to get as far away from the place and the memories it holds as fast as possible.

I could go home, of course, but the thought of returning to my sad, empty apartment is more than I can bear right now. I could go back to the hospital, where I am sure Dr. George would be happy to check me back in, but that would mean facing Storm, and I’m not willing to do that right now.

Storm gave up on me. I should have known from the beginning that he would. I know he had reasons, but the long and the short of it is that he’s giving up. I’m never going to get better, and I was a fool ever to let Storm convince me otherwise.

First Dr. Davidson, then Storm. How long before Dr. George gives up, too? I’m a lost cause. The black hole in my chest will continue to grow until it consumes me completely.

Hopelessness and despair lap at the edges of my mind. I can’t do this. Why in the world would I want to? Terrifying thoughts race through my mind, the kinds of thoughts that would most certainly get me another involuntary admission were I to confess them to Storm or Dr. George.

I find myself heading to the nearest liquor store. Surely, if I drink enough, I can numb myself to this pain. It’ll be safer this way. If I’m too wasted to walk straight, I won’t be able to do anything permanent to myself.

I grab a cart, throw my crutches in it, and walk through the aisles, snatching bottles of alcohol at random. The teller raises an eyebrow as I come to her with my full cart of assorted bottles. I must look like a mess. I know my face is blotchy and red from crying, and if she has any understanding of basic facial expressions, I’m sure her look of concern is entirely warranted.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” I just want to get out of here.

I go home and start drinking. I’m not even entirely sure what I’m drinking, only that it burns going down. I quickly start to feel ill, but I keep going. I can still feel the black hole acutely inside me; the alcohol has done nothing to dull it. Surely, there must be a way to end this nightmare, or at least escape from it for a little while.

When my stomach rebels, I have to crawl to the bathroom, unable to stand without falling over. I lean over the toilet, heaving up the contents of my stomach, even more miserable than I had been before. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?

I crawl back to the living room, ignoring the pain shooting up from my leg, and tip up another bottle of alcohol, determined to make this strategy work, even if it kills me. Especially if it kills me.

By the time the bottle is finished, the world is turning violently, almost as violently as my stomach. I can’t even crawl. My stomach doesn’t care. I heave again and mostly liquid vomit comes out, splattering my clothes and the floor in front of me. I try to get up to clean up the mess, but I don’t have the strength and I’ve pushed my leg too much. I end up falling to the floor.

I lie there in a pool of my own vomit, crying and cursing myself for my own weakness. Why does it have to be like this? I stare at my stupid leg, resenting my injury more than ever.

I can’t do this. This is unbearable. It has to end. I know where my ropes are, but when I try to get up to get to them, my body flops uselessly, sending me face first into the vomit. I scream in frustration as I try to push myself up on my arms, only to have them give out.

There has to be something I can do. Anything.

I spot my phone on the couch a few feet away. I could call Storm. He’d come; I know he would. For a moment, my alcohol-addled brain considers the possibility, but then I remember that Storm abandoned me and has no further interest in helping me.

Noah. He’ll come. He cares. I doubt he can do anything to make me feel any better, but even not lying in a puddle of my own puke would be an improvement at this point. Perhaps the sight of a friendly face will take the edge off the agony. It’s worth a shot. I’m willing to try anything at this point.

I reach for my phone, fumbling with it as it falls to the floor. Thankfully, I have Noah’s number on speed dial. He answers on the first ring.

“Chester. How are you doing?”

“Noah… I need help,” I slur.

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