(A/N: Thanks for reading) Two weeks drag into three since I left Brian's and have been back here at the center. Deep down I think I was wishing- hoping- he'd come after me. Even though I knew he wouldn't. And I know this is best. I haven't told the doctor about my seizures. I haven't been going to meetings. I haven't taken the vitamins. I'm still a doddering, fall-down fool. I've been overeating, hardly sleeping, never speaking and health-wise, I feel like shit. Bluntly speaking: I'm a wreck. A hopeless, brainless, Brian-less wreck. Maybe I should invite Brian to my own personal pity party-- he'd LOVE that. I've held a razor to my wrist at least a dozen times since I left Brian's; I've held it to my left wrist, hoping it will do the 'trick' since my right is still encased in a cast. I promised myself before I left the loft that I'd end it when I got back here, and do it the fast way. I've stared at the razor against my skin each time, each time willing myself for hours to just DO it, to just drag it across my wrist and sever the artery there... each time my mind screams at me: 'just *DO* it, dammit!'... but ironically, each time what stops me from killing myself is the image of Brian's face. Brian smirking, laughing, teasing me, smoking, scowling, frowning... caring... and I can't bring myself to even break the skin. Even though I'm no longer in his life and he's no longer in mine. It's insane, really. Wellllll, I guess being unable to truly, purposefully kill yourself isn't insane. In fact, most would consider that a very sane quality. But I have nothing to live for. I don't mean just because Brian's not in my life anymore, although oddly, that feels like a lot of it. No, I mean there's NOTHING. Now that I'm not in a perpetual mind-sizzling haze of drugs and booze, now that I'm not in a just-clean state of tentative hopefulness, now that I see how bleak everything really is: it feels insane to me not to just end it. Shit. Dinner's over and I stack my tray on all the others. Once Jeremy, the guy 'assigned' to me, leaves for his room, I make a decision. Without allowing myself to think much, I exit the cafeteria and walk briskly but not hurriedly to the front door. I pull my cast into my coat sleeve and pray that I can stave off a lovely demonstration of my lack of balance until I at least get outside. I don't know exactly what I'm doing- well, deep down I guess I do- but that's where 'not allowing myself to think much' comes in. I'm not stopped, strangely enough. But after meals is always a little chaotic at the center plus the staff shift changes, so no one really even notices me. Walking as steadily as possible and like I have purpose helps, too. Again, I just don't let myself think much about what that purpose may be. As soon as I'm successfully out the front door I see how rapidly the evening is darkening into night; good- blackness suits me. I take a deep breath and my knees nearly buckle. It feels like a weight has been lifted although all my perceptions are mixed with a dizzying vertigo. I hurry down the sidewalk and don't look back because not only would I fall if I tried to turn my head, but I don't want to be anywhere within sight of the center. As the distance between me and that hell hole increases, I allow my thoughts to start to surface clearly. 'Thoughts'- ha! Only two things scream in my consciousness: 'BRIAN'. And, 'NO'. NO, I can't see him... So basically I just keep walking- or more accurately, staggering. As darkness falls completely, I hold my coat close to keep warm. After an hour, I look up and find I've 'walked' all the way to Andy's. Lovely. Here I am: back at the old homestead: the run-down, abandoned, condemned shit-hole whore/crash-house on Gaylord Street. Hm. I go into the decrepit building and while the place is the same, the faces are slightly new since I was last here. Not that new- I mean the people are new to me but their expressions aren't: strung out, crying, dirty, emaciated from heroin or crack and/or passed out. Ah, the good ol'days: just like I remember (hell, it's only been a few months). There's no electricity of course, so there are a couple of lit candles in the middle of the floor, tilting dangerously near the cracked wood. I scan the dimmed faces along the wall and stop cold when I see Andy. Passed out. His latest fuck-toy is passed out next to him-- he can't be older than 12 or 13. My stomach rolls... no... I can't do this. I can't go back to this. I quickly turn around to leave- which is a very, very stupid thing for me to do. I lose all semblance of balance and crumple to the grimy floor. I look around on my hands and knees and see countless dirty, mostly empty hypodermic needles on the ground around me. Instinctively I try to sit up on my knees- and find that two needles have embedded in my left palm. Horrified, I yank them out with the barely moveable fingers of my casted right hand. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Tears of panic and fear start to fill my eyes as I curse- curse myself, the dirty needles, my defective brain, my shitty health overall, my maudlin outlook - and Brian... the fact that I met the fucker. The fact that I'm desperately in love with him. The fact that I'll never ever see him again. The fact that the asshole has so thoroughly invaded my psyche. As I curse I almost laugh at the very real possibility that I may have just contracted HIV from one or both of those needles. Fuck quick or slow suicide. I think I just may have inadvertently made it so I have no choice but to die. Well: GOOD. (Right?) Shaking, I get up slowly, wavering in place as I try to keep my balance. I teeter on my feet but still move forward towards the door to get out of here; then I hear Andy behind me-- I know it's him without even looking. "Taylor!! Slut! You finally came back for more, eh? Come back tomorrow baby doll, 'cause I got some rich johns all lined up for some hot blond boy ass, motherfucker! I know where you are now, man! I had you hooked up that whole week an' then you vanish- at least 50 guys! Fucker! You better be back here tomorrow or you and your sexy GQ pimp will regret it!" The inane babbling hits me, yes, but not until he refers to Brian do I swing around to stare at him- which makes me stumble and collapse on the floor again. Andy laughs; he's so skied I'm surprised he can- I'm truly amazed he can even speak. His young fuck-toy has roused and laughs too, though he has no idea why. If Andy finds something funny, fuck-toy laughs too. "Can't stand, eh? That center you've holed up in isn't helpin' much, is it? Still so piss drunk and high you can hardly stand up! Loser!! Just remember my promise, fuckface-- if you ain't here tomorrow to offer your ass for green then you and your hot sugar daddy are TOAST." Dizzy or not, needles all around me or not, I slap my palms on the floor to maneuver to stand and flee, but I can't get up. I can't. It could be Brian's life or fucking death and I CAN'T STAND. So… I crawl, desperate, avoiding trashed needles as best as I can; I scramble out of the dilapidated house into the cold, black night. My head is spinning and both arms hurt- the broken one aches from being jarred each time I've fallen and my left hand is now stinging where the needles stuck me. I can't care at the moment- I have to get away. Andy and his toy's drunken, high cackling follows me as I crawl as fast as I can as far as I can from the sound; I must look like some horror movie creature-of-the-night moving down the sidewalk. I notice as the noise grows fainter that others in the house have maniacally joined in, not even aware of their surroundings- just hearing laughter and laughing too. Shit. I realize that now I'm a bawling, quivering, terrified mass of nerves. I stop my crazy crawling race against no one when I get about three blocks away from the house. My jeans are shredded at the knees and the heels of my palms are skinned raw from the rough cement. Slowly, using what must be one of the last surviving payphone kiosks in the world, I force myself to stand. No one's out for some reason- thank God. Otherwise I'd've been crawling past people and that would've caused a few raised eyebrows- and elicited a few phone calls to the cops about some lunatic in the streets. I wipe my snotty, tear-stained face on my coat sleeve but it doesn't help much. I try to focus on breathing- in and out, in and out. Relax, Justin... relax... working yourself into more of a state won't help you at all right now... I look around. I'm surprised that the payphone I'm leaning against has a receiver that hasn't been torn out. Permanent marker scrawls are all over the metallic surface; 'I'll blow for blow' and 'call to fuck young virgins raw' sort of messages cover it like calligraphy on a medieval manuscript. Without allowing myself to think much (since that tactic has been SO effective for me so far tonight- ha ha), I reach a shaking hand into my coat pocket; I pull out a tattered slip of paper. I pick up the receiver, deposit 2 coins I'm thankful I have and dial, trying to ignore the blood from the needle punctures in the palm of my trembling hand. But as the phone rings, I count 5 bloody pinpricks. Shit. * "What the hell is it now? Mikey, I'm on my way out the door! Gimme a fuckin' break!!" My heart leaps but my instinct is to hang up. Brian obviously didn't look at the caller ID. Silence. Silence for at least one of my three allotted minutes. Why the fuck DON'T I hang up!? I should just go back to Andy and do as he says and Brian won't be in danger. But… Jesus, my heart aches so bad. * "Justin?" His voice is quiet and I hardly hear it, but a wave of relief washes through me despite myself. "Justin? Is that you? Justin, where are you? 'Public phone'? The fuck!?" He's obviously checked the caller ID now. "This IS you- isn't it? This isn't the center's number! Where…?" "I'm..." I don't really know where I am and I feel... faint all of a sudden. * "Justin! Where the fuck are you?" He's getting mad. No. Not mad. He sounds more panicked. "Taylor, where the HELL are you!?" He repeats. "I - I don't know..." Apparently this isn't an option for Brian. * "WHERE ARE YOU??" ++"Please deposit... 25 cents for the next three minutes..." a recording interrupts. * "JUSTIN!" I look around and spot a street sign- funny, really, that I used to haunt this area so much but am so clueless about where I am. I was so completely tweaked all the time, I never knew street names or anything- just Gaylord where I fucked, sucked, used and crashed. That's disturbing, of course, but what's more immediately disturbing is the word on the sign I'm trying to focus on is blurry and seems to sway before my eyes. "There's a sign... it says Tremont..." huh. That's Brian's street. But he's across town. Just then the phone clicks and there's a dial tone. Disconnected. Soon there's another recording telling me shit about 'if you would like to make a call...' Fuck. I slam down the phone. I feel like I'm going to pass out. As awful as I feel about contacting Brian, I find myself wishing I had just one more quarter. But I'm moneyless. And I'm cold. And in danger- as is Brian- of Andy. ...And I feel incredibly sick. Hopeless, I collapse on the sidewalk and curl as tightly as I can in on myself feeling achy, hot, cold, nauseated and like I want to die. I'll never see Brian again. I'll never get better. There are too many hurdles. Tonight I've discovered I can't go back. I already know I can't go forward. There's NOTHING. I wish Brian were here right now, berating me for wallowing in my misery. But he's not. Giving up, I close my eyes.