Chapter 14: Chapter 14: Recovery
Part II: Last Stand
There was a floating sensation, first, like he was submerged in a pool of warm water. Flashes of light registered behind his closed lids. He hovered on the edge of awareness, understanding something was happening, but not yet curious enough to find out what.
Please, he thought, now that I am dead, when I open my eyes, let me be in the City.
He floated a while longer, hearing voices occasionally, but unable to focus enough to make out what they were saying. A heavy apathy smothered his will, keeping him in a calm he only experienced in the City. His heart warmed, knowing he was right. He allowed himself to rest for the first time since his ordeal began, safe in the arms of home.
Fresco woke and opened his eyes, a smile of joy already coming unbidden to his lips, his brother's name hovering on his tongue. Daniel was there with him, he knew it, there in the City, and they would finally be together again.
To his shock, he looked up instead at a cracked, dull ceiling long in need of a coat of paint. It took him a moment to realize not only was he alive, after all, but the City was still a distant dream. He let his eyes fall shut, a huge lump rising in his throat as the weight of disappointment settled on his chest and squeezed.
It took him several minutes to collect himself. Resigned, he opened his eyes again.
Fresco lay on a cot with a thick wool blanket pulled over him. Daylight shone through the dusty window above his head, making him blink in the brightness. The room was dingy but clean, most of the old, musty wallpaper peeled free. It smelled vaguely of sickness covered by hospital antiseptic. A small dresser and mirror were the only other furniture. He noticed a tray on the dresser top and a pile of folded clothes at the foot of the bed. He tried to remember what happened and how he ended up there, but his last sure memory was of trying to kill himself.
The girl, he thought. She saved me. The lump in his throat rose again as emotion slammed into him. Why? Why couldn't she just let me die?
All Fresco had been, all that he had done, pushed down on him. He struggled with what he became and whether he wanted to live with it. EMZee's distorted face floated before him, memories of what he endured at the hands and feet of the sugarpop hitting him like a punch in the stomach. All his breath rushed out as he flashed to things his Wasted mind tried to make him forget.
Cowering in the filth, begging for the blue joy
Beating a small girl for her stash and giving it to EMZee who laughed and gave him nothing in return
Being used as a punching bag by EMZee and his friends
Fresh memories hit him over and over, worse than any beating EMZee gave him. Endless faces of Wasted kids he tortured and tormented for EMZee's amusement, becoming the sugarpop's toy... Fresco's mind spun in circles. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would shatter. He was worse than EMZee. He chose to do what he did out of his own selfish need. Self-hate tore a hole inside him and drove him to sobs.
That amount of emotional outpouring only lasted so long, especially considering how little reserves were left to him. Fresco snuffled weakly around his despair when his strength abandoned him.
Sleep was a blessing he didn't deserve.
***
When he next woke, the room was darker, but someone obviously checked in on him because a single naked bulb glowed its soft twenty-watt light above the dresser. It took him a full thirty seconds to rediscover his loathing and guilt, enough time for him to register he felt at least physically stronger.
When the tears ran out this time, Fresco didn't so easily retreat into the quiet oblivion he craved. In fact, he felt wide awake, his face shoved into what he did over and over by the endless spinning of his mind. It became so bad he found himself jerking up into a sitting position just for the distraction, swiping at the tears on his face, drained of energy but needing to move before he went mad. He glanced at the dresser and the tray of food resting there. In that heartbeat, as he allowed himself the idea of hunger, the desire for Wasteland came thundering back.
Fresco braced himself for an attack, but none came. He held himself rigid for a long time, certain it was coming. He spent too long under the influence of Wasteland to shed it now. But when nothing happened, he made his tense body relax from the anticipation of the hunger. The need was there, but he could handle it, at least for the moment.
Part of him wished the pain would carry him away, that the clawing in his guts would rise and take over, just to put a stop to the thoughts twisting him up. He would never, ever forgive himself. Ever.
He was surprised to feel a hunger of another kind and resisted only because it was so unfamiliar. Once he recognized it for what it really was, his eyes went without his permission back to the sandwich on the tray.
Just eat it, his heart said. You need your strength if you're going to get better.
You don't deserve to get better, his mind answered in a voice he knew too well.
It sounded like Justin. His friend's voice berating him made his skin crawl. Especially because it was true. He didn't. Fresco hugged himself and wallowed some more while the food called to him.
He was never a melancholy child. That was Daniel's personality, prone to swings of emotion. Not so Fresco. And despite his struggle with his conscience, he realized he wanted to live after all.
Fresco stood up to go for the tray and had to sit back down again immediately as his knees buckled. A wave of weariness passed over him. Black crept in around the edges of his vision. Fresco took several deep breaths before trying again. He managed to get up and take a shuffling step closer to the dresser before crumpling to the floor in a heap. He lay on the cracked laminate tiles, chilled, realizing he was dressed in underwear and nothing else.
Happy now? Justin was so smug. Look what's left of you. Nothing. You can't even walk two steps on your own.
Hearing his friend's echo tear him apart gave Fresco the strength to try again. He might be broken and battered by his addiction, a shade of his old self never quite able to completely recover, but he was damned if he would let his false friend tell him what to do ever again.
This time, rather than attempting to walk, Fresco swallowed his remaining pride and crawled to the dresser, doing much better on his hands and knees.
He sat with his back against the chipped wood and managed to hook the tray with one hand, almost dropping it as he began to shake from weariness. His muscles felt old, weak, like he exerted himself way past the point of recovery. He had pneumonia as a child and remembered feeling the same way.
I guess, in a way, it is the same, he thought as his fingers let go at the last second and dropped the tray the final two inches, knocking over the water bottle. I've sort of been sick. Food and rest and I'll be okay, just like then.
Sure you will, Justin whispered. Fresco called the voice a bad name and shoved it aside.
Despite his desire, the sight of the sandwich made his stomach churn. He pushed the tray away, only to drag it back, knowing he needed to eat but dreading the inevitable purging his body was telling him would follow the first bite.
Instead, he tried a sip of water. Frustration burned at the strength it took to get the top off. Sweating a little from the effort, he finally managed to break the seal with a soft grunt, collapsing against the cabinet again before trying a drink.
When the first mouthful stayed down, he tried another. Then another. Then a nibble of a corner of bread. Slowly, carefully, paying full attention to his body's warnings, Fresco managed to eat part of the sandwich and drink most of the water before exhaustion took him again. He fell asleep with the rest of his meal in one hand and the tipped bottle of water draining the remainder of its contents onto the cool tile floor.
***
The third time Fresco woke, he was back in bed, the same wool blanket pulled up to his chin. Disoriented, not remembering how he got there, he looked at the dresser. Another tray, another sandwich, another bottle of water.
This time it was easier and harder. His strength was returning. Fresco made the few steps to the tray and back to the bed again without the crippling exhaustion that plagued him the first time, but the effort was almost enough to knock him out. And the entire time guilt berated him in Justin's voice, telling him over and over how disgusting he was, how he deserved to die, beating him down with flashes of images from his days on the street.
Fresco choked the entire sandwich past a lump in his throat, the bread flavored salty with his tears and finished the water before putting himself back to bed.
He battled the voice for a while before falling into a peaceful sleep.
***
The fourth time seemed to be the winner. When he woke up he found he had enough energy to be curious about the world around him. Sandwich and, as a welcome addition, chocolate pudding. He savored the sweet smoothness, successfully washing it all down with a bottle of water. Fresco considered the jeans and T-shirt on the bed beside him. He was aware of other people, the sound of soft footfalls passing by his door and the murmur of voices below him. The pull of his need for the blue joy was constant and heavy, but he suffered so much worse he was almost able to ignore it.
Only the fear of facing other people held him back. Especially since Justin/guilt thought it was a bad idea.
They'll know what you did, it hissed with hate. They'll judge you and make you leave when they find out. You'll be alone out there again and no one will ever rescue you. You'll die alone, the disgusting freak that you are.
Fresco shuddered, hugging his knees. How could he face anyone after what he did? It was true. Better to hide behind his door and let the mysterious girl leave him a tray while he slept himself into oblivion.
That's it, the voice contradicted itself in Justin's best snarl. Quit, loser. Just like you always do.
That wasn't him. He wasn't a quitter. It was just so hard. And he had so little left, the shell he managed to rebuild around his self-worth ready to collapse at the lightest touch. But he didn't want to stay in the room forever. Wouldn't. Even if it meant the street again, he needed to try.
More importantly, Fresco found himself wanting to fill in the holes. To find out what happened and where he was. He handled the clothes left for him. The worn denim jeans felt comfortable between his hands, familiar. Normal, even. He pulled them on, the waist bagging slightly but not enough for them to fall. He found he enjoyed the warmth of the thick socks on his thin, chilled feet and the softness of the shirt over his wasted body. His eyes found the mirror before he realized he was looking and he flinched for a moment, the image superimposed with the monster he was that night under the bridge.
Reality was far different and forced its way through the memory. The hollow look was gone from his face, as was the horrible hurt in his eyes, only an echo of his guilt left behind like a stamp of sadness he would carry with him the rest of his life. And yet, only a shadow of himself looked back. He ran both hands through the shaggy mess of his long, blond hair, thinking how his mother would not approve. Fresco found himself staring at the scars crisscrossing his hands and forearms, gratitude welling, winning over regret, that he barely remembered where they came from. When he twisted his right wrist, the bones twinged, nearly healed.
He shuddered, the vibration rising from his feet, engulfing him, like a dog shaking water from its coat. When it passed, he breathed deeply and met his own eyes yet again.
I'm clean and sober and there is food in my stomach. And I'm alive.
Fresco drew a breath and tried not to tear up again. It was a far cry from dying under an old bridge with nothing to lose.
The thought of the drug made the demand surge while the voice shouted at him.
Fool! Loser! Weakling! You should have died there!
It was fed by the hunger and hurt but was controllable. The battle for his body wasn't over, and so too the fight for his state of mind. He was grateful for this second chance and determined not to screw it up.
He looked at the door and paused, his heart flipping over. It sounded good in theory, this risk of exposing himself to the outside world again. But what if they did know? What if the girl who saved him knew what he had done? Would she hate him for it? The guilt hovered, laughing at him, taunting him. It felt like he finally found somewhere to be safe, to get answers. Like he was on the verge of getting some of his life back. But Justin wouldn't leave him be.
Fresco knew what he needed to do. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, shuffling to the door. With his heart and his mind battling still, he turned the knob, forcing himself to face his guilt.
***
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone