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Chapter 23: The Alcoholic

Chapter 23: The Alcoholic

Humphrey's P.O.V.

I'm not even really sure where to begin, honestly. When I told him that we wanted him to be our pups' godfather, he was determined that he would kick his addiction in just a couple weeks, but even I knew that this would be impossible. In the first two weeks of his recovery, his record for sobriety was three days before the withdrawals became too much for him to bear and he would end up right back where he started, but after week three, and after an exhaustive effort on my end, we managed to get him over the hump and his body finally began to detox. Then the real work began.

Miles seemed to believe that once he quit the berries, everything else would just fall into place, he could put it all behind him and he could start over fresh. What he didn't realize, though, was: Not getting drunk would never be enough. Those he hurt would not simply forget his actions, nor would they be so quick to forgive him. I remember how frustrated he would become whenever those around him would not give him the benefit of the doubt and would always expect the worst from him even though he had been on his best behavior. I can't say I blamed him, but at the same time, he couldn't seem to understand that a couple weeks of improved behavior would not suddenly heal or overshadow years of lies, abuse and disappointment. For some, that would all come in time. For others, amends would never be possible, and he would have to learn how to manage the complicated emotions that these circumstances would bring about without the help of substances. I'm not sure what I expected, but as he continued to rack up substance-free days, it became increasingly apparent that the real challenge for both of us would be that thing inside his head.

I remember how anxious Miles was during his first week of true sobriety. The addict inside of him waged an all-out assault on his brain and tried everything in its power to drive him back to the berries. He fought valiantly against it, but the vile demon that lived in his mind battered him incessantly with awful, self-destructive thoughts, and I could see in his every action that as a result of the unrelenting war that he fought in his head, he clung to sobriety by the skin on his fangs.

He was distracted, restless, and highly irritable, which I honestly expected given his habit. Only problem was: He had a bargain to uphold as well, and so long as he was in such a state, that would be impossible. I had gone to A-School for the sole purpose of being able to protect my family, but that all fell through. So when Kate got hurt and I discovered that I would soon be a father, I felt like a failure, because I knew that I would never be able to be what my mate needed me to be.

However, when Miles offered to train me in return for helping him get clean, it was like a beacon of mercy and grace had been shined down upon me. With his past experience as an instructor, and being revered as one of the best the pack had ever known before he lost himself to his vices, I knew that I couldn't possibly fail. This, of course, did not go according to plan, and while I initially tried to be patient, after a while I began to grow rather frustrated with him. I'll be honest, I realize now that I probably shouldn't have held such high expectations for someone who had spent the past five years so fucked up that he could barely function, but time was a luxury I didn't have.

See, it was during that third week that the Artist returned with a chilling promise and I knew based upon the horrific diorama they had crafted from the bones and rotting remains of exhumed wolf corpses that they were nearing their endgame. What exactly that was, I couldn't even begin to imagine, but I knew in the deepest depths of my soul that unless I learned how to fight, my mate and I would soon meet a brutal, bloody end.

Kate's P.O.V.

Relationships with addicts are... complicated... You want better for them, and you expect better from them even though deep down you know you shouldn't, because part of you knows that they'll never change...

sigh*

The hardest thing that I had to learn in my experience with both of the addicts who wreaked havoc in my life, is that what they do to the people they love, they don't do it on purpose. They do these things because they are sick and they need help. I struggled with this for a long time, because I always held the belief that they made the choice to use, therefor they made the choice to say and do horrible things to the people who care about them. But with time, I realized that while they are in active addiction, they don't have a choice. They are slaves to forces that compel them to use at all costs, because their brains have been convinced that they need such substances in order to survive. It is not a matter of want. It is literally a matter of need.

You can see that they are suffering and you want to help them, but ultimately you can't, and the longer you enable the behavior, the longer you pour your soul into trying to help them, the more they'll drag you down. It's hard to watch someone you love slowly kill themselves, but there comes a time when you have to accept that you cannot change them unless they want to change themselves and let the disease run its course.

That's how it was with Miles for the parts of my adult life that he had lived to see. As a close friend of my father, I grew up with him and he became almost like a second father to me. "Uncle Miles" was my superhero when I was young and I wanted to be just like him, but what I didn't realize was that my superhero had a fatal flaw. According to my mother, Miles would partake in the fermented berries fairly regularly when they were all young, and while problematic behavior would surface every now and again if he got TOO blitzed, for the most part, he was the fun drunk. But as he got older, and as addiction began to sink its ugly claws into him, he changed.

I can't say for sure how long alcohol had held him in its grasp before I started to notice the changes in him, but I distinctly remember that after Flint killed himself, he was never the same. Though they were not related, Miles seemed to take his death personally. I couldn't ever figure out why until one night in a fit of drunken guilt and rage, he confessed that he was probably the last one to see Flint alive. According to him, he saw Flint that night, sitting alone on the bluff. He said that since my friend was in clear violation of curfew, he should have followed protocol and brought him back to the dens, but instead he chose to leave him be. He never said why he left Flint alone on the bluff that night. One could speculate all day about his reasons, or what would have happened if he had followed proper procedures, but, honestly, what does it matter? It wouldn't change a damn thing.

No matter what the reasons were, they would never be good enough. They would never bring my friend back or make his death any easier to accept, so why pick at the scab? I'll admit, for a long time, I held onto a bit of resentment toward Miles when he confessed that he likely could have prevented my friend's suicide, but I could never hate him more than he hated himself. I guess I never did forgive him for leaving my friend alone that night, and I probably never will, but in spite of how much I hated him at the time, I still loved him, and I still do.

Alcohol took a lot from him, but underneath what his addiction turned him into, he was a GOOD man. By the time I had gotten pregnant the second time, he was completely lost and everyone, even my father, had given up on him. It broke my heart to see someone I had once held in such high regard lose himself so far into his addiction that he lost touch with reality, but his mind was so screwed up from his drinking that he could not even put together a rational thought. Rather, he maundered on or would lash out in anger when he felt he was being lied to. In what had become his reality, he had no friends. Everyone was out to get him, and he was merely a source of empty entertainment for those around him. They would plant information in his head and then laugh and mock him behind his back as he scrambled to find truth in what he had been told.

None of this was true, of course. In spite of the way he treated me and others in the days following his termination, my heart broke for him. This bumbling, rambling, insane, mess of a man was once my superhero, and I knew that somewhere underneath those bloodshot eyes, his slurred speech, and all of the shitty things he did to me, my family and the pack, the wolf I once admired still remained. Call me stupid if you will, because after seeing what trying to help him did to my father, I knew that I should not get involved, but I just knew that somehow I could help him see the light and give him the help that he needed. Addiction turned him into someone I didn't even recognize, but deep down, I believed that if he had a good enough reason to quit, there would come a day that he never touched another fermented berry.

That's why I was so insistent upon making him our pups' godfather. I tried to explain this to Humphrey, but I don't think he ever truly understood, and I think that by the time he finally agreed to give Miles a chance, he had grown so tired of arguing with me over it that he probably said yes just to shut me up. I could tell that Humphrey wasn't fully on board with the whole thing, but since I was invalid, and since he loved me and wanted me to be happy, he volunteered to help my friend get clean.

In the first couple weeks, I could sense the frustrations that mounted inside of him. He would come home in the evening after searching Miles' den and making sure that there were no berries that he could access, and he would go on and on about how Miles was hopeless.

"Guy can't even go three stupid days without a drink," he would rant as he and I settled in for dinner, "I don't know what I was thinking when I said I would help him. I don't even know the first thing about addiction."

I would sit and listen as he vented all of his frustrations to me, and then once he said his piece, I would respond simply by saying: "Remember, Humphrey: Miles never stopped fighting for you. So please don't stop fighting for him." This simple statement always seemed to pull my omega's mind away from the anger that stewed within, but I could see that he still carried the stress of it all as he lied down to sleep at night. And I must confess, as time wore on and there was little to no improvement from Miles, even I began to doubt myself. As the weeks went on, I began to wonder: If Miles was really that far gone, then was there even any point in continuing to offer him our help? I wrestled with this thought, but after week three, something finally began to click and he was soon to celebrate his first week of sobriety.

I know that doesn't sound like much, but there once was a time when he could not go seven hours without a drink. The fact that he had made it seven days was absolutely incredible and it was all thanks to my husband and his kind, patient heart. Of course, I knew that the real battle had only just begun, and that he still had a lot of work to do if he was going to stay sober, but in that moment, at least, I was proud of him. Humphrey, however, still seemed annoyed by him, and I couldn't ever figure out why. What he was doing was clearly working. Sure Miles was very rough around the edges, and he was an anxious, neurotic mess, but we both knew that things would get worse before they got better.

Hell things between me and my mate got so bad at one point it didn't seem as though they would ever get better, but during the span of time between my injury and the night that everything went to Hell, we were better than we had ever been. Humphrey put the berries down, and as I thought about the man I married and how I bore his children, the anger and hatred that I felt for him melted away. Of course, tensions still remained, and I know I didn't help in that regard, but I was so paranoid about having another miscarriage that I didn't want to take even a single chance that something would go wrong.

Part of me always knew that Humphrey used his promise to Miles as an excuse to get away from me, but honestly I think that was the best decision he could have made for us. He was attentive and caring every step of the way while he was home. He made sure that every one of my needs was met without fail, and I couldn't have asked for anything more. I could have and should have been more appreciative of everything he did, but my mind was focused on one thing and one thing only: I was not going to lose this litter. I'm not sure if he ever truly understood this or not. Honestly, since he did not know that this was my second attempt at a litter, how could he? I'm just glad that was patient and decided to distance himself rather than try to press the issue and potentially cause another fight.

For those first couple weeks that Humphrey worked with Miles, he and I were great. Obviously my situation brought a lot of unnecessary tension between us, but we were finally acting like a couple again. When we were lost in that darkness that had settled in around us, I had completely forgotten why I married him in the first place, and while I wish it wouldn't have taken an alcoholic an injury and a litter to remind me, I honestly wouldn't change it for the world. Whatever circumstances drew us together, we were finally together again, and that's all that mattered.

Now, when the Artist made their frightening return, a whole new level of tension began to rise. This tension was not between me and my husband, at least not initially. More so, it was a tension that resided within myself. One part of me wanted to be as invested and involved in the investigation as I could, but another, bigger part of me was so afraid of harming or losing my litter that I didn't dare leave my den unless it was absolutely necessary. This meant that Humphrey would have to step up and take the lead in the investigation, and I'll admit: At first, I didn't think that he had it in him.

I knew my husband, and he was no leader. I'm not saying that to be mean or anything. I'm just saying that as an omega he never bore that responsibility, and since he could hardly stand to investigate a crime scene without growing faint, and since he was not fully respected by most alphas after his separation from A-School, I just had my doubts that he could actually do the job. However, if there's one thing I learned about my husband in our time together, it's that he's full of surprises.