FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Charlie and James By Ken Anderson

Chapter 11: More Than Time, Part 3 of 4

The door to my office squeaks loudly as it opens. The hinges need a good oiling...

I hear the soft sound of footsteps as my last appointment of the day enters the room. There's a 'click' as the door closes, and a now-familiar sigh fills my ears as the new arrival makes himself comfortable in one of the padded chairs in front of my desk. I smile. I know who it is. This patient has become so recognizable to me that I can tell him apart from my others by the smell of his fur and the sound of his voice. He reminds me of Charlie and myself...

I've got my head buried in the paperwork left over from the suicide attempt that occurred two days ago; a patient got ahold of a bottle of valium and attempted to swallow the whole damn thing. Two-hundred-and-thirty pills... Thankfully, a doctor quickly spotted the missing meds; the comatose thief was carted away to the local hospital to have his stomach pumped... According to the ER personnel, he'll be fine. It just might take a while before he wakes up...

Ever since then, the recovery center has been a scene of pure chaos. Patients clamming up; sneaking extra drugs... Even my own psychoanalysis, which had been scheduled for today, has been abruptly called off. Apparently, Dr. Granger was needed to help with the patients who were hit the hardest by the event. I close the folder and set it aside, before reaching into the drawer on my desk for a pack of cigarettes. I remove one and place it between my lips, before offering the open pack to the newcomer. I watch the edges of his muzzle twist into a faint smile as he reaches out a paw to retrieve a smoke.

"What's going on, Kev?" I ask him. "You look a little down today..."

"A lotta shit, man..." he replies. His voice is so soft as to almost be a whisper. "I'm a little shook up after the whole 'suicide' deal the other day. Everyone's been talkin' about it..."

I nod my head, and take a moment to assess his physical state before I continue. Kevin is a white tiger with soft grey stripes. He's skinnier than most of the members of his species, a consequence of his years of intravenous meth and heroin use. I took a liking to Kevin from the day he was checked into the Recovery Center; there was something about him that just made him seem like the perfect patient for me. His deep hazel eyes and quick temper reminded me of Charlie... His stories of pain, sickness, and needing to fix up reminded me of myself... I'd been the first person to greet him as his parents carried him through the sliding doors of our facility; I'd been the one to get him settled. Ever since BJ had passed, a few years back, I'd had to be the one to get everything done. It was tedious work. It was stressful... But I'm still here... For now, that is.

Parts of Kevin's fur have numerous bald patches, specifically, on the undersides of his wrists and parts of his long, thick-furred tail. Towards the end, he'd resorted to using the small veins located on his tail to shoot up; he was too scared to 'jug' his shots, and every other usable lifeline had collapsed. After three months in recovery, however, I can see that he's made some noticeable progress. He's started to gain back some of his lost weight; I can usually find him in the gym or the cafeteria if he needs someone to talk to. His eyes have begun to lose that zombie-like glaze; that one long-lasting sign of years of opiate abuse... Heroin eyes. He also spends plenty of time in the art room, sketching, drawing, painting, and designing t-shirts. His work is amazing. He's even started on a mural in the rec room, which is supposed to depict a drug addict's struggle for redemption and recovery. Even though he's barely started, it already looks like something you might find in an art museum. The cat's got real talent.

Judging by Kevin's current posture, I can see that these positive influences are the last thing on his mind at the moment. His shoulders are hunched, he's sunken back into the chair. His eyes are roaming the floor. He appears to be anxious, seriously depressed, and trying his best to keep himself distracted...

I reach out with a match to spark his cigarette. Kevin leans forward and inhales deeply as it begins to burn.

"Yeah, I know, man..." I tell him. "Nobody could've predicted something like that. Everyone's in shock. They don't know what to do; how to cope... Us counselors have been kept busy around the clock ever since it happened."

Kevin nods his head solemnly, before taking another drag from his cigarette. "Yeah, I know; I've never seen everyone so messed up... They're either quiet or they're talkin' about it; it's on the tip of everyone's tongue. Even my roommate won't talk to me; he just sits there and stares at the TV in the rec room... Have you ever seen anything like that?"

I pause for a moment, before slowly nodding my head. I've seen this whole scene before... I remember it all... The mourning; the whispered gossip; the deafening silence. Yeah, I've been through it, as well. I hate to talk about it; it always makes me sad... It's also how I ended up getting my job.

Oh, well... They say the truth will set you free.

"Yeah, man, I've been there..." I whisper. "It happened right here; in fact, in this very office, almost four years ago... Only it didn't end with him getting hospitalized..."

"How'd you handle it?" Kevin asks me. I can see the pleading look in his eyes as he listens for words of guidance... After a moment, I realize that there aren't any that I can really give. There is no 'correct response' to this kind of thing. There's no manual, no textbook, that can accurately explain how you're supposed to deal with something like this... I decide to open up; I decide to tell him my story. Since I've been working in counseling, I've learned that the best way to get a patient to truly open up and help themselves is to relate your own personal experiences. And by that, I mean the worst experiences. Even though this may seem a little unorthodox, and even highly taboo in some circles, I've always found it to be the most effective method. In some situations, such as the one Kevin's dealing with right now, I've also found it to be not only practical, but entirely neccessary.

"I don't know, really..." I say, "But if you want to hear about it, I hope you've got some time, man... This is a long-ass story..."

Kevin shrugs his shoulders, and nods his head towards the pack on my desk. "How many smokes ya got?" he asks. "If you've got enough, I'll sit here all night. Besides, I've never heard any of your stories before. I mean, Max talks about em' all the time, but I've never heard em' from you..."

I chuckle, and open the drawer again. There's a torn-open carton of Newports sitting on top of some printing paper. I pull out an unopened pack, and toss it his way. He catches it lazily with one paw, and smiles. "Thanks, doc."

I shake my head and smirk. "Call me Dr. Clayton, and I'll kick your teeth in," I tell him. "I'm not going senile yet..."

He lets out a burst of genuine laughter as he tears open the pack and removes the foil. That's good. Laughter is the best medicine in the world; fuck Prozac....

"Alright, alright, I'll tell you. Forewarning, though, it's a little depressing..."

I clear my throat to begin. I light my own cigarette, and take a nice, long drag before setting it down into the glass ashtray next to the computer monitor on my desk.

"I'd been here for a little over three months... It was my birthday. Things were different back then..."

---

"Wake up, roomie! It's two in the afternoon!"

I groan loudly in complaint as I feel the down-filled pillow smack heavily against the back of my head. I reach a hand up and snatch it away, before flinging it back towards Max's side of the room.

"Fuck off! We've got a couple more hours til' group... I wanna sleeeep..."

"SLEEP?!" I hear him exclaim. "How can you sleep?! It's your birthday, man! You've gotta get up and enjoy it!"

"Like there's any chance of THAT happening..." I mutter, as I pull the covers over my head and snuggle up to my pillow once more.

Max lets out a low growl of frustration, and I hear his footsteps getting closer as he makes his way to the foot of my bed. The sheets rustle loudly as he grabs them in his paws, and yanks them off of my body in one hard tug. I flip over, curl up and try to ignore it; I'm tired as hell... When he reaches towards the table between our beds for the styrofoam cup filled with water, though, I spring up and throw my feet over the edge.

"ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, ALREADY! I'M UP! No need to get touchy, dude..."

He giggles like a schoolgirl as he makes his way over to our closet. I'm busy rubbing my eyes and trying to clear my throat when I feel him sit next to me on the bed. He tosses some clothes in my lap, before tapping my shoulder with a paw and extending something else towards my face. Focusing my vision, I see that it's a joint. How thoughtful...

I take it from him, and stick it in my mouth. I watch as he retrieves a match from the pocket of the black Dockers he's wearing, and uses his claw to strike it. He leans over to light my joint, before shaking the match out and going to open the window. I suck down a huge hit and inhale, holding my breath. It's too much for me to handle, however, and I end up coughing and sputtering loudly as the harsh, grey-blue smoke pours from my lungs.

"Be careful with that, man!" Max calls over to me. "That's White Rhino! I bought you an eighth for your birthday; it's under your pillow."

Smooth, fox-boy... Real smooth.

Still, this news comes as a surprise to me, and I reach a hand under the pillow to confirm this for myself. Sure enough, my fingers brush against plastic, and I pull out the baggie to examine the contents. This stuff looks great; it's covered in white hairs and the trichomes are shining like miniature crystals. Raising it to my nose, I take a deep sniff, and am greeted with the fresh aromas of lemon, pine, and citrus. The smell itself brings a smile to my face.

"Thanks, Max..." I say, "You're a good friend."

"Hey, that's only the start of your day, man, " he replies. "I've got a little surprise for you tonight."

...If only I knew what fate had planned for the two of us that day.

If only I'd had the foresight...

Maybe everything would've turned out differently... But then again...

... Maybe not.

I stare at him as I try to comprehend this. What does this sly bastard have in store for me now? I bury the thought for later as I take another, smaller, hit from the joint before passing it over to him. "What've you got planned now?" I ask him. "That last thing you wanted us to do didn't exactly work out in our favor, you know..."

Max slaps a palm on his forehead as he remembers the event I'm talking about. A few weeks ago, He and some other patients had come up with a plan to sneak into the small store near the cafeteria one night, and clean out the place's supply of cigarettes. He'd even convinced me to take part. If we'd been successful, we'd have had a monopoly on the tobacco trade in this place... Of course, things didn't go exactly as planned. I'd followed Max and two of his cohorts up the stairwell to the second floor, where the cafeteria was located. Max had picked the lock on the shop's door, and we'd all made it inside without any mishaps.

We'd just begun to fill a garbage bag with cartons of cigarettes, when we heard the alarm. Nobody had mentioned that the place had a keypad installed discreetly next to the entrance. Nobody knew the code. I'd grabbed Max by the back of his shirt, and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the stairs. The other guys weren't so lucky, though, and they'd gotten caught red-handed when the security guards came running out of the elevator. Max and I had barely made it back to our room without being accosted by the staff.

"Yeah, but that was different!" he whines.

"We'll see," I tell him. "Now give me a minute, I've gotta get changed."

Max heads to the window with the joint, and I slip on the clothes he's provided for me. The pair of black jeans fit snugly around my hips, and I notice that the kneecaps are torn. The shirt is a little tight, but I manage to pull it on. I can see the acronym PLUR written across it in different-colored block letters. He sure has a strange sense of fashion... I shrug it off, and slip the bag of pot into my pocket. I might need it later...

"What do you say we get some lunch before we head to group?" he asks. I turn to face him; I see that he's flicked the joint outside and is busy replacing the bars on the window. I shrug my shoulders and nod my head once.

"Fuck it, why not?"

I grab a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook from under my mattress. They don't let patients have lighters here, but we can smoke. It seems kind of weird, but I've been going along with it. Max finds his own pack of smokes, and leads me out of our dorm. We make our way down the gloomy, blood-spattered hallway, and enter the main rec room. I try my best not to stare at the red stains on the ceiling as I push open the double-doors.

Instead of the usual chatter, we're greeted with pandemonium. Patients are huddled in small groups, talking softly and whispering amongst each other as we enter. A few heads turn to stare at us, but they quickly look away, and the conversations continue.

"The fuck's going on?" Max wonders aloud, throwing up his paws. One of the patients, the blonde-haired wolf that I've noticed Max talking to a few times, leaves his group and walks over to us to fill us in.

"It's BJ," The wolf whispers. "He locked himself in his office, and he's trashing the place."

"The big guy?" I ask him, "Why would he do that?"

"One of the guys heard everything," he continues, "A couple of cops came in this morning, and said they wanted to talk to BJ... They told him that his son OD'd a couple days ago on some fent-laced dope... As soon as he heard it, BJ went just about ape-shit. He wrecked the reception counter, stormed into his office, and locked the door. People have been trying to check on him; they say they can hear him throwing stuff around. They say that when the noise dies down, you can hear him crying..."

Max and I exchange worried glances, before nodding our heads. "Thanks for telling us, man." Max says to the wolf. They shake hands, and the wolf departs. "So what do we do?" I ask the fox.

He's got this look of genuine desperation on his face as he replies,

"....We go talk to BJ."

I nod my head, and the two of us start to walk through the rec room, towards the counselors' offices. We pass several nurses and orderlies as we near our destination. They all look distraught; worn out...

I find myself thinking about how serious this situation really is...

Since I arrived here, three months ago, BJ and Max had become my closest friends. Fox-boy was my roommate, so I guess it was bound to happen, but BJ... BJ was different. The thick-muscled lion was one of the kindest people I'd ever met in my life. Of all the counselors and other staff members I'd gotten to know during my stay in this facility, he'd had the biggest heart. He'd been the most understanding. He also led the groups. I remember when I'd first started to attend the group sessions with Max; I'd been so shy, so withdrawn, that for the most part, I'd just sit in my chair, smoke cigarettes, and not say a word to anyone. BJ changed all that. After a few days of silence, he'd taken me to his office, and we'd had a long conversation about my shyness and emotional issues.

I'd completely broken down. I'd told him everything; what had happened with my parents when I'd come out, how I'd become a junkie, how I'd met Charlie and finally felt that my life had begun to change... Until it all got taken away. I just kept talking and talking; I didn't even realize I'd started to cry until I'd felt his strong arms wrap around my shoulders and pull me backwards into his chest. I don't know how long I sat there, with my tears streaming down onto his fur. When it was all over, he told me that everything would be all right; that, no matter what the problem was, his door was always open. I didn't need to keep it all buried deep inside... After that day, I'd started to change... I no longer sat idly by during group, listening to others pour out their hearts while I kept mine locked up tighter than a coffin in a twelve-foot grave...

I began to open up. I told them all my story. I let them share my pain. After several sessions of spilling my guts, I began to feel the release that comes with knowing that you never have to suffer alone. I began to feel like I was slowly, steadily, chipping away the bricks surrounding the walls of my innermost thoughts...

And it was all because of BJ. After a while, I'd come to think of him as more than just my counselor; I'd come to think of him as a friend. Max and I would meet up with him to share breakfast or lunch, or even just to hang around the rec room, swap stories, and play some eight-ball. Sometimes, we'd all head to the facility's small gym together, where BJ would teach us the finer points of lifting weights, exercising, and building muscle. He had this thing about staying in shape... Even though Max and I could never quite keep up with him when it came to fitness, we appreciated the time that we all got to spend together. BJ was a great guy...

.....And now, he needed his friends more than ever.

As Max and I approach the closed door of BJ's office, I can hear the sound of choked sobbing coming from within. Every few seconds, I hear my friend take a deep, labored breath, before his tortured cries of agony continue. I look towards Max, and I see that he's got tears welling up in his eyes as well. My head falls against the oak door as I squint my eyes closed and try to think of what I should do... I sigh loudly, and feel my shoulders begin to slump. There's nothing to do but try...

"BJ? Are you all right, man?" I call out.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!" he roars in reply.

"BJ?" Max yells, "Come on, open the door! It's Max and James; we just want to talk to you!"

We can hear the sound of shuffling feet as BJ moves around in his office. His crying stops momentarily, and I can hear something crunching noisily against the floor as he brings a foot down on it. I press my ear to the door. The sound gets louder, before growing fainter. It comes close to the door, and then it moves away. He must be pacing... He must be thinking...

"I'm so sorry, guys..." he whimpers, "I just... I don't want you to see me like this." His voice cracks as he tries to form the words. I can hear him sniffling as he tries his best to muffle the sound.

"Hey, don't worry, big guy," I say, "We're not here to hurt you or make it any worse... We're here to help. You've helped everyone else for so long; you've been like an older brother to us. Please, BJ... PLEASE... Let us help you."

I can feel the tears streaming down my cheeks as I try my best to give him comfort. Max notices this as well, and I feel his paw rubbing my back gently as I lay my head against the cold door. BJ's soft footsteps continue. After a moment, they stop. I hear the lock on the other side rattling as he twists it. The knob turns slowly, and I back away as the door swings inward. Our friend turns his back to us as he steps deeper into the small room, running his paws through his messy, knotted mane as he trembles with sadness and rage. Max and I slowly enter the office, and I lock the door behind me as I allow my eyes to take in the result of BJ's violent outburst.

There are piles of paperwork and miscellaneous personal objects littering the floor. I notice a broken lowball glass lying in pieces near the door frame. I can see a small puddle of blood pooling amongst the razor-sharp shards. That must've been what I'd heard him stepping on. Looking further, I can see that his small, wooden desk has been overturned. The padded folding chairs that BJ usually keeps in front of his desk for his patients are dented and sitting against a wall. The laptop computer that stores most of his work digitally has been thrown into a corner; it lies in two pieces on the floor of the battered office. Photos of BJ's family and friends are strewn about the room, their frames bent and their glass casings smashed in. The large bookshelf sitting against the wall next to the door has been ransacked; the torn pages of self-help diatribes and psychology textbooks are mingling freely with the case files and session notes piled on the ground. The place is a wreck... Like the lion it belongs to. I shake my head and use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe away my tears. It's all so sad... So depressing... But I can't let myself worry about it now. I need to help BJ.

Max walks over to the two trashed folding chairs, and grips them in his paws. BJ stares out the window in the back of the room, unable to meet our eyes as his body shakes with the soft whimpers that continue to slip from his muzzle. I make my way over to him, and place a hand on his shoulder. He gives a gasp of surprise as he whips around to face me. I can feel his muscles tense as he stares me down, and I wonder if he's going to hurt me. He must've seen the flash of fear in my eyes, though; he immediately shifts his gaze to the floor and starts to cry again. I motion for Max to bring over one of the chairs. He slides it open and sets it down behind BJ, facing the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Sit down, man..." I whisper.

BJ only nods in response, before lowing himself down into the seat. I take the other chair from Max, and set it up next to him. I turn my head towards Max, and clear my throat.

"Max..." I begin, "Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone?"

My roommate stares at me for a moment, an expression of confusion written across his muzzle. He finally sees my point, and nods his head silently before leaving the room. I hear his back falling against the wall outside as he guards the entrance to the office. That's good...

It's not that I don't have respect for the fox, or that I don't want him to be here; quite the opposite, in fact. The thing is, after knowing BJ for so long, I've come to realize that he prefers to talk one-on-one... And I can respect that. He's as shy as I am. Even though he leads the group sessions, and has no problems sharing his feelings with a roomful of others, BJ never really opens up when there's more than one person present. He never really shares his PAIN.

Pausing to grab a discarded box of tissues from the floor, I seat myself next to him. I try my best to give him a reassuring smile as I hold them out, nodding towards the box as he looks back at me with those tear-stained auburn eyes. His paw shakes as he reaches out to pull away a tissue, before bringing it up to dry his tears.

"...Thanks." he whispers.

I shake my head and reach into my pocket for the pack of cigarettes. "No worries," I say.

I manage to find the pack, and pull out two smokes. I set them both on my lip and use matches to light them, before pulling one away and offering it to him. When he takes it from my fingers and puts it between his teeth, I get a slight hint of how serious this is. BJ doesn't smoke. He's never even had a cigarette.

I watch as he takes a deep pull on it, before exhaling loudly. He coughs, before breathing out a sigh of relief. I see him shake his head as he pulls the cigarette from his lips and stares at it while he holds it between two claws.

"Nasty little things..." he mutters.

"Yeah, I know..." I reply, "I thought it might help..."

He gives a soft chuckle before raising it to his lips, and trying again. He seems to calm down a bit as the cigarette continues to burn. I decide to ask him, point-blank, for the story.

"What's going on, man? What happened?"

I don't make any assumptions; I don't tell him what I've heard. I need him to open up and tell me for himself. I need him to trust me. Hearing my questions, he takes another huge drag from the cigarette, burning it down to the filter before stomping it out on the wooden floorboards. Thick, grey smoke pours from his muzzle as he lowers his head into his hands, and starts to talk.

"It's my son..." he begins, "Karl..."

I watch as he bends over in his chair to retrieve one of the photographs from the debris scattered on the floor. I peer over his arms to study it as he traces a claw lovingly over the form of a young lion smiling brightly for the camera. He has his father's eyes... He looks so young...

"He was twenty years old... He was just starting to grow up..." BJ starts, "He was born during a troublesome time in my life; his mother and I were both fully strung out on heroin. Neither of us had come to our senses at the time; we thought that we were perfectly capable of raising him while feeding our insatiable appetites for dope... Looking back on it now, I can clearly see that there was no possible way that it would ever end well, but try telling me that back then, and I probably would've punched your teeth out... God, I was so out of it... Anyway... About a year after Karl was born, Rita, my mate, decided that it was time for her to get clean. She'd made the right decision for both her and our son. I didn't. I kept using, kept shooting, and all the while, I kept telling myself that I was doing my best to be the kind of father I wanted Karl to have... But I wasn't. I was a terrible father; a horrible mate. Rita and I would get into fights. Not just verbal arguments; I'm talking about actual fistfights. She would always complain about my using, and I would always try to convince her that I was perfectly fine... I was so naive back then... By the time Karl turned ten, he'd already grown to resent me. I wasn't his dad; I was a junkie who beat up his mom, and screamed at him whenever I didn't have my wake-up shot... I wasn't the kind of guy he'd ever want as a role model..."

I offer BJ another cigarette, and he takes it without question. He allows me to light it up for him, and inhales deeply before continuing his story.

"A couple months before Karl's thirteenth birthday, Rita had had enough. She gave me an ultimatum; get clean, or get out. So I left... I don't know how long I wandered the streets; how much dope I shot, or what I had to do to get it. Sometimes I would wake up in a puddle of my own blood, with my knuckles scarred, and bleeding from cuts all over my body. Sometimes I would wake up in a cell... It didn't do much to stop me... After a while, I decided that I couldn't spend the rest of my life the way I was... I was gonna end up killing myself, or someone else. I just couldn't take it anymore... I checked in here, at this facility, and spent the next couple of years slowly piecing my life back together. Once I'd gotten past the sickness, the cravings, and the countless hours of therapy, I tried to reconnect with my family. I called Rita, but she didn't want anything to do with me. When I called Karl, he told me he hated me; that I should lose his number. He told me that I wasn't his father, and that he never wanted to see me or hear from me again... I relapsed that night... swiped a bottle of vicodin and ate a good half of it... I never heard from either of them for a couple more years, until Rita called me during Karl's senior year of high school... Nothing could've prepared me for that call. She told me that Karl had been doing drugs for a while. It was pretty harmless at first; she'd find a few joint roaches left in his pockets when she'd do his laundry, or a six-pack of beer hidden in his closet... But from there, it got progressively worse... Her pain meds started to disappear from the medicine cabinet... He would come home blackout drunk, or tripping out, screaming about how her muzzle was melting away and dripping slowly onto the carpet... But the reality of the situation didn't really sink in until the day she found him nodding out on the bathroom floor with a needle sticking out of his arm. My son... My Karl... He'd become the one thing we were both afraid of... He'd become a junkie... He'd become ME."

BJ pauses to finish the cigarette before stomping it out next to the other butt. I've been listening quietly, not saying a word. I don't even realize that I've taken out the bag of weed that Max had given me for my birthday, or that I've been rolling a joint. BJ sees the cone-shaped object sticking out from between my fingers, and holds out his paw to take it from me. I hand it over, along with my matches, and watch as he sticks it in his muzzle and fires it up. He tosses the matchbook onto my lap, and takes a large hit. I can hear him groan softly as the high washes over him. He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking.

"Karl's downward spiral just couldn't seem to stop. Rita threw him out of the house; she'd already lived through my addiction, and she swore she wouldn't go through the same thing with our son. I tried to get ahold of him several times after that, but every time I called him and offered to get him a room here, he wouldn't have any of it. He blamed me entirely for his addiction; he told me that it was MY fault. No matter how many times I shouldered the blame; no matter how many times I told him that he was right, he still wouldn't accept my help.... and now, he's gone... My son... Gone! All because some dealer didn't bother to tell him that he'd laced his latest batch of dope with fucking FENTANYL! Rita didn't even care enough to call me herself, and tell me what happened; I had to hear it from the cops this morning when they came to notify his next of kin! And then I called Rita, and she won't even let me ATTEND THE FUCKING FUNERAL!"

BJ roars loudly in rage as he flings the joint roach against the window. It explodes in a shower of sparks. I shrink back into my seat as I watch him pant loudly, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly as he seethes with anger. I've never seen him act this way. He's usually so calm; so collected... I've never seen him so mad. It hurts me. The look in his eyes; the sight of his fur standing on end. It's like a he's turned from BJ into someone else... Some kind of monster...

"Calm down, big guy," I whisper, "It's not your fault..."

"But I could've stopped him!" He complains, "I could've done something about it, and I didn't!"

I shake my head sadly as I look into his eyes. "It's not your fault," I say again, "You can't blame yourself for what happened. Your mate made her choice when she decided not to tell you about it... And you tried your best to help your son. I don't think anyone can blame you for Karl's death; if anything, the guy who should shoulder the blame is the dealer who sold him the stuff."

BJ sniffles loudly as he uses his arm to wipe away the fresh tears forming under his eyes. I see him nod his head once in agreement, before turning back to me.

"Yeah... I guess you're right."

I reach my hand over, and pat him a few times on the back. "Everything's gonna be all right... We'll help you get through this, man... You don't have to handle it alone. You've got friends..."

He cracks a warm smile as he looks over at me. I notice his long tail begining to swivel from side to side as he chuckles.

"Yeah... You'll be there for me?" he asks. I nod my head and smile.

"Of course. Max and I are here to help, man. If there's anything we can do, you just have to ask!"

His chest rises and falls as he heaves a loud sigh. I really don't know what to do or what to say. I'm drawing a complete blank. I've never had to help someone deal with something like this before... My mind is racing, trying to come up with some sort of game plan; some sort of direction.

But honestly, I'm clueless...

"Thanks..." BJ says. He claps me on the shoulder with a heavy paw, and gets up from his seat. I watch as he starts to collect the scattered sheets of paper and other miscellaneous objects from the floor. I decide to give him a hand.

A couple of hours later, we've restored the office to it's original state. The desk is standing on its legs again; the computer and the numerous files and folders are stacked neatly on top. I'm bending over, retrieving the last of the of BJ's personal objects from the ground. What I reach for is a familiar photograph. I smile when I see Max and myself on either side of the big cat, his thick arms wrapped around our necks in a mock chokehold. That was a fun night... Checking the clock on the wall, I can see that quite a few hours have passed. The sun is just beginning to set. I place the framed photo on the desk, and turn to face BJ.

"Are you gonna be all right?" I ask.

He nods his head, and shrugs his shoulders. "I'll deal. I'm gonna give Rita a call, and see if she'll reconsider letting me go to Karl's funeral. Why don't you go see how Max is doing? He's been sitting out there for hours. You guys should get some dinner while it's still being dished out upstairs. It's getting late."

I give him a smile, and reply, "Sounds good. Are you sure you'll be OK?"

He nods his head again, and sinks back into his chair. "You can come and check on me in the morning, if you want..."

I tell him that I'll be back, and slowly make my way to the door. It creaks loudly as I pull it open. I'm greeted with the faces of several concerned counselors who have been waiting outside. As soon as I shut the door behind me, they bombard me with questions:

"Is BJ all right?"

"What happened in there?"

"What'd he say? What'd you say to HIM?"

"What do we do now?"

I try my best to tune them all out as I notice Max slumped against the wall next to the door frame. His eyes are closed, and he's snoring softly. He must've dozed off. I raise my foot, and give him a light kick in the shins. He jerks awake, and whips his head around to see what's going on. Using a hand, I motion for him to get up, and he manages to pull himself to his feet.

"BJ is fine," I tell the onlookers. "He's just going through a rough time right now. Don't bother him about it; I'll be back later to check up on him. Just go about your business, guys."

The concerned staff members seem to accept my resolution, and begin to walk away. I offer Max a cigarette as we head towards the elevator. "So, really, how is he?" he asks me.

"Not so good," I reply, "He's pretty torn up, but I think he'll be alright. He stopped crying after a while, and we cleaned up his office a little. All we can do now is give him time..."

I press the button for 'up', and the elevator chimes loudly as it reaches our floor. Max is silent as we step inside. The doors slide closed behind us. Honestly, I don't know what to think about BJ and his current situation. He seemed fine when I left him, but I doubt he'll be getting much sleep tonight. I silently pray that he at least gets to attend his son's funeral... For a grieving father, there's not much else he can hope for. I find myself feeling concerned about whether he'll make it through this unscathed...

The next morning, I wake up alone.

Max is nowhere to be found. That's odd. The fox is usually always there to nag and pressure me until I get up. I wonder what's going on. My hand brushes across the table between our two beds, and I grab the pack of cigarettes that's sitting there. I manage to place one between my lips, and light it up with a match. Thinking back to the events of the previous day, I remember that I'm supposed to go and check on BJ. I throw off the covers, and head for the closet to get some fresh clothes...

When I reach BJ's office, I find Max leaning against the wall again. He sees me coming, and I can sense his unease before I see the look of panic across his face. "What's going on?" I say.

"I don't know man. I've been knocking on his door for like, half an hour. The nurses said he never left his office last night, but I can't hear him inside. I think he's sleeping or something..."

Oh no... PLEASE, God, no...

I push my way past my roommate, and bring my fist down loudly on the door. "BJ! BJ, ARE YOU IN THERE?! OPEN THE DOOR, MAN!" I scream.

There's no response.

I press my ear to the door, and listen for the sound of snoring that would confirm that he is asleep. I can't hear anything. My nose wrinkles as a familiar aroma invades my nostrils. What the hell is it? I know I've smelled it before... Come on, what IS that?! I start digging around in my memory, trying to identify the smell.

It smells like flowers... It smells like vinegar...

Suddenly, it hits me. I know that smell....

It's the smell of someone cooking heroin.

Panic and alarm sweep through my body as I back away from the door. Max looks at me with a stunned expression as he watches me prepare for what I'm about to do. "Wait, man!" he cries out, throwing up his paws. "What're you--"

I don't give him time to finish as I charge towards the door and raise my leg to kick it open.

I grunt with the force as my foot slams into the wood. The thick door flies inwards and crashes loudly against the wall as the weak, plywood frame comes apart in a shower of splinters. Doctors and patients lounging in the rec room turn their heads towards the sound as I make my way inside. All conversation stops. Max peers into the room after me as I step towards the hunched-over form of the head counselor. He's in his chair, facing the window. At first I think Max is right; he must be sleeping.

Then, I see the leather roll-out case sitting on the desk, containing several unused syringes which sit next to a twisted metal spoon, and two bags of thick, gummy black tar. One of the bags is completely empty. I grit my teeth and brace myself for the worst as I circle around the chair to come face-to-face with BJ.

I must've screamed. I must've cried. I don't know what I did, but I must've done something, because I can hear the loud, pounding footsteps as numerous people come running down the hall. Whatever I did, Max has heard it as well, and he dashes into the room to see what's going on. He drops to the floor on his knees as he realizes what I've discovered. I can hear him choking up as he starts to cry.

BJ is dead.

The lion's eyes are wide open, completely washed over in soft white. The skin under his fur is grey, almost blue. As I look closer, I can see the tourniquet tied snugly around his right bicep, situated above the half-empty syringe protruding from the crook of his thick arm. He's OD'd.... And I wasn't able to save him. There's a piece of paper sitting on his lap, the words scribbled hastily upon it in his gentle, loopy script. I pick it up and shove it into my pocket. I can hear the footsteps getting louder now. In a desperate move, I run over to BJ's desk, and snatch up the stash of heroin and syringes. I roll the leather case shut, and stick it down my pants. My feet carry me back to the lion's side, and I remove the syringe from his arm and untie the tourniquet. These objects are quickly tossed into the trash bin next to the desk. Nobody can find this. Nobody can know that this was ever here. I won't let that happen.

I pull Max back to his feet as the crowd begins to form outside of BJ's office. A nurse and two orderlies push their way through the chaos, and rush towards us. One of them skids to a halt, and starts to ask me something, but I cut him off.

"He's dead..." I choke, the tears beginning to well up in my eyes.

"...He's gone..."

The orderly shoves past me, and steps up to take BJ's pulse. The nurse is visibly shaken, and I can see her crying softly as she raises a paw to close his eyelids. I hear her call out the time as she confirms that he is no longer alive. I don't care. I don't wait to hear any more. I need to get out of here.

I have to wrap Max's arm around my shoulder and physically carry him away from the scene. Neither of us can stop crying as we make our way, slowly, back to our shared room. When we arrive, I push open the door, and help Max onto his bed. He immediately curls into the fetal position and sobs loudly, letting out a wail of pure anguish and pain as I turn back to close the door. My hand shakes as I twist the lock, before making my way over to Max's bed. I reach down into my pants, and pull out the leather case. Max is still crying as I set it down in front of him, and bury my head in my hands. He gives a choking gasp as he opens his eyes and sees it lying there. I can feel him moving as he claws desperately for it, and unrolls the thing on his lap.

"I'm cooking up a shot." he sniffles. "You want one?"

My mind screams at me not to do it; not to touch that nasty shit again. It tells me that I'm only going to make things worse; that I'm only going to fall into that downward spiral once again. But my body... My body has another agenda. I feel my head slowly nodding as I confirm to Max that I'll be needing a shot as well. I hear the sound of a match fizzling to life as he goes to work. A couple seconds later, I can once again smell that enticing, and yet disgusting aroma as my former drug of choice is melted down into a dark, warm liquid. Max taps me on the shoulder, and I turn my head to see that he's trying to hand me a nice-sized shot. I take it without hesitation, and begin to search my arms for an undamaged vein. Here we go again...

I manage to find one, and insert the needle. I press down on the plunger very slowly, taking care to measure the effects so as not to overdose accidentally. When I can feel that familiar rush of sedation, I quickly pull the needle out. I've hardly started to inject the drug; the syringe is still mostly full. I hear Max give a loud sigh as he sinks onto the bed. He murrs softly as his eyelids close, and I watch his chest rise and fall slowly with each overpowering breath. He's not alone. I feel it too. I can't control my body as I fall backwards as well, landing squarely on top of Max's outstretched legs as the nodding begins. I take in the familiar aroma of his fur, the feeling of the fabric of his jeans as I begin to fade away. Before I completely pass out, I think of BJ. Why? Why did it have to end like this? I remember the slip of paper in my pocket, and I decide that I'll have a look at it when this is all over. Maybe he's left us some answers.....

But for now...

Why?

That's the question which tugs at my mind, pulls at the threads of my very sanity, and makes me question the reason for my entire existence...

Why?

_ Sometimes I feel_ _ Like I don't have a partner_ _ Sometimes I feel_ _ Like my only friend_ _ Is the city I live in_ _ The city of Angels_ _ Lonely as I am_ _ Together we cry_ _ ..............................._

_ It's hard to believe_ _ That there's nobody out there_ _ It's hard to believe_ _ That I'm all alone_ _ At least I have her love_ _ The city she loves me_ _ Lonely as I am_ _ Together we cry_

...WHY?...

Max and I don't leave the room for the rest of the day. We lay on his bed and nod, our pleasure broken only by periods of soft, painful sobbing. We stay in our room and shoot up. We stay in our room and cry. We stay in our room and kill ourselves slowly, drop by drop, shot by shot, as we try in vain to wash away our sadness...

We try, and try... We try and fail.

And all through the day and late into the night, neither of us utters a single word...

I'm still nodding in and out of consciousness the next day, when Max shakes me awake and mutters that it's time for us to get to group. He's fucked up as well; his eyes are half-lidded, and I can see the dried speck of blood on his wrist covering up his latest injection site. The heroin is almost gone. The two of us have consumed nearly all of the single remaining bag of tar in one night. We've slipped; we've fallen, and for some reason, neither of us feels the need to pick ourselves back up again... At least for the moment...

"Alright... Let's get out there..." I say, as I stash the half-empty syringe I've been clutching in my palm under the soft pillows on my bed. I don't need a wake-up shot. My tolerance has hit the dirt. So have I, I guess...

Max offers me the cigarette he's smoking as I pull myself up from the mattress and stretch my arms and legs. I take it from his extended paw and slip it between my lips, swaying back and forth as I bend over and slip on my shoes. I try to tie the laces, but I'm too out of it. Max has to grip my waist to keep me from falling as I try. It's hopeless. I leave them untied, the shoestrings trailing on the floor behind me as the two of us exit our room and make our way down the creepy hallway with the flickering lights. I chuckle as I see the now-familiar bloodstains on the ceiling. In my doped-out mind, I imagine the place as a set for some horror movie made in the fifties. It all just screams "Bloody, gory murder." I imagine myself as a victim.

When Max and I shove our way through the swinging double-doors that lead to the rec room, everyone turns to face us. The conversation quiets as we approach the circle of metal folding chairs. They're staring at us. By now, everyone knows that we were the ones to find BJ dead. I notice a few patients nodding their head understandingly as they see how messed up we are. Nobody says anything, though. They probably don't blame us for our obvious relapse. We don't make any effort to hide it.

The two of us stumble towards the group, and I notice that all the chairs have been taken. My head scans the room for any leftover seats, but I find none. Just then, two of the patients, the blonde-haired wolf and Mike, the intimidating crocodile who'd threatened me on my first day, rise from their chairs, and push them towards us.

"You guys can sit down," Mike tells us, his voice tinged with sorrow. I nod my thanks, and take his seat. Max slips into the chair next to me. All eyes are on us now, and everyone is sitting in silence. They're waiting for us to say something... They're waiting for us to begin. I take a puff from the cigarette between my lips, but nothing happens. I realize that it has gone out. I reach for the book of matches in my pocket, but before I can pull them out, several people are waving lit matchsticks in front of my face. I tilt my head towards one of them, and suck deeply as the cigarette ignites.

"Hey, everyone..." I start, exhaling a cloud of smoke as I begin.

"My name is James, and I'm an addict..."

"Hi James," the group parrots.

"As you all may know, something terrible happened yesterday... Something unthinkable... We lost a good counselor... We lost a great friend... We lost BJ..."

I take the final drag from my cigarette, and stomp it out on the floor before I go on.

"BJ was more than just another drug counselor. He was a great guy. He lived a troubled life; a life of sadness, of suffering and pain. But when I met him, he'd changed. On my first day here, he was the one who came and rescued me. He carried me into this building, this very room, and set me down on that couch."

I point to the ratty sofa in front of the TV.

"When I first came here, I was an empty shell. I was a locked door; a chained gate, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not, for the life of me, share my feelings, or my pain. I couldn't talk. I couldn't say a word. I was so shy, so closed off from everyone else, that I had no idea what I was doing or how I was supposed to better myself. But BJ changed all that. He took me aside, and told me that everything was gonna be all right. He told me that I had all the time in the world, and that when I was ready, I would open my heart and I would pour my innermost thoughts out, like a river, for everyone to see and hear. He told me that I didn't have to be alone. Nobody should be made to suffer in solitude. He told me that my life held value, held MEANING, and that he would do everything in his power to help me realize that... And he did. Right now, as I'm sitting in front of you all, I'm a changed man. He helped me, and in return, I promised to do my best to watch his back as well... But I couldn't. I couldn't save him... I couldn't save the lion; I couldn't save the counselor; I couldn't save the grieving father... I couldn't save my friend!" My voice cracks and my chest heaves as the tears which had been held back for so long began to stream endlessly down my cheeks. I feel Max's comforting touch as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to him. He's crying as well.

I can hear loud sniffling as the members of the group begin to shed their tears along with us. I can feel their pain. Not even heroin can fix this, I realize. All the sticky, fresh dope in the world couldn't mask the way we all feel right now....

"But he wouldn't want us to let him die in vain," I choke, in between sobs, "He wouldn't want us to follow him down that path. He wouldn't want us to suffer for the rest of our lives, wondering 'why', and blaming ourselves for what happened..... He left one last thing for us; one final goodbye... And I'm gonna--... I'm gonna read it to you now... And I want you all to take his words to heart."

My hand rifles through my pockets until they wrap firmly around the crumpled, folded slip of notebook paper. I'd read it several times to myself last night... I'd read it and I'd wept...

BJ...

Even though he'd taken his own life; even though he'd chosen such a devastating way to end his pain, he hadn't left us with a reason... It wasn't just a suicide note... No... He'd left us with a message of hope.

"To all my patients, and to all my friends..." My hands are shaking and the words come out in gasps of breath as I try my best not to cry even harder,

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to see me like this. I'm sorry that I couldn't explain the way that I felt. When you find me, I'll probably be gone... But I don't want you to worry. I don't want you to cry... I want you to remember the warmth and comfort that I gave you all. I want you to remember the best of times. When you think of me, I want you to smile. You were the brothers I never had, the sisters I never knew. You were my family, my closest companions, my dearest friends... I love you all. I'll miss you where I'm going, but I'll never forget the time we all had together... I want you to take what I've taught you, and use it to build yourselves better lives. You can do anything; be whatever you want to be. You can be successful; you can be leaders. You can go wherever your heart takes you, and you can find your own special places in this world... I made a mistake. You'll all make mistakes. But I pray that none of you will fall into the hole I've found myself in; that none of you will do what I've done. My life has been full of bad choices, and for the longest time, I've tried my best to live with those decisions. But I can't... I've gone to join my son in another life, and one day, I'll see you all there... When I do, you can tell me all about the changes you've made to our world... You can tell me anything... Again, I'm sorry it had to end like this... I'm sorry for whoever has to find me here... I love you all, and I want nothing more than for each of you, no matter who you are, to become a better person than I ever did. I've made my choice, and I'll see you on the other side......... BJ."

The group is silent as I fold up BJ's note and place it back in my pocket. Nobody has anything to say. They're all reeling from the information I've given them; from the strength of BJ's final, heartfelt words...

They're all frozen; paralyzed... And so am I.

The rest of the week goes by without any noticeable change in moods or thoughts. Everyone's been depressed. Everyone's worn out. Even the doctors and other staff members are showing the signs of melancholy, doling out antidepressants, mood stabilizers, and tranquilizers with this look of pure sadness and despair on every face... It's a week I'd never forget, for as long as I lived. It's a short period of time that's seared into my memory like a brand from a red-hot piece of iron or steel; permanent, irremovable. Unchanging, and full of questions which have no answers...

On Monday, at the start of the next week, my time in rehab came to an end...

Everyone has lined up in the rec room to bid me farewell as I walk towards the entrance to the facility. I lose track of how many hands I shake; how many hugs I am given. Max is waiting for me at the head of the columns, standing before my mother and father, ready to give me one last goodbye before we never see each other again...

But that's not the way things worked out...

"Are you ready?" my mom asks me as I approach. I meet her eyes with an expression of pure pain, and give a single nod. I feel a familiar paw resting on my shoulder before I can leave, and I turn to face Max. He stretches out his arms, and wraps them around my body in a tight hug. I can't stop the tears; they pour from my eyes and spill onto his fur as I return his embrace. My friend... My roommate... In the short time that I've known this fox, I'd easily have gone to hell and back for him... Even though we'll never share the kind of intimate relationship that I've shared with Charlie, I can honestly say that I love him...

"Are you gonna be all right?" he asks me when he finally lets go. I shrug my shoulders in response.

"Who knows?"

He nods his head in acceptance, and I turn to folow my parents outside. Before I can exit, however, I hear the sound of running footsteps, and turn back around to see Mary, the mare who runs the reception counter and handles the facility's secretarial duties.

"James! Wait!" she shouts. She skids to a halt in front of me, pausing to catch her breath before she speaks.

"I've just come from a meeting with the staff," she informs me, "They wanted me to ask you something..."

"What's up?" I say.

"Would you consider interning as a counselor here?" She continues. "I mean, the staff knows you, the patients respect you. Everyone hangs on your every word; they all listen to what you have to say."

The crowd of patients erupts in hushed agreements and gentle nods as they hear what she's proposing. I smirk, and shrug my shoulders.

"I'm just a junkie, Mary," I tell her, "A junkie who's got a way with words. Are you sure I'd fit in here?"

Max takes the time to speak up. "Are you kidding me, man?! You've lived here for almost three months! You know everyone; everyone knows you! You'd be perfect for the job; hell, look at me! Before you came here, I was just another asshole fox who liked to beat the shit out of people! Now I've got friends, I've got a purpose; everyone likes me! You tamed me, man! Imagine how you could help THEM!" He points to the crowd.

I nod my head slowly. Max is right. I could do this... Yeah, I could.

"All right," I say, "But aren't I supposed to like, go to school or something?"

"It's a two-year associates degree program. Your parents have already told us that they've enrolled you at Sandstone U. They have a drug-counseling program there. The classes start next month."

I turn to face my parents with a look of mixed rage and appreciation. "You did WHAT?!" I almost scream.

"We put you in school," my dad replies sternly. "We were hoping you'd graduate with some kind of degree. You need to be a respectable man, kid. Respectable people have these things called_JOBS_."

I'm steaming; I'm shaking. I don't know what to say or do... I'm not even out the door yet, and already, my parents are trying to take control of my life again... I slap my hand to my forehead, and drag my palm down the front of my face.

"Fine..." I mutter. "I'll go to fucking school..."

I turn back to face Mary. "...But I'm not living with you guys. Mary, is there room for me here?"

She nods her head excitedly, and nods to Max. "You can bunk with Max for as long as you'd like," she says, "We'd be more than happy to provide room and board if you decide to stay on."

"It's settled, then." I announce. "I'm staying here."

I whirl around to face my parents, and get right in my dad's face. "LEAVE. I don't want to see you; I don't want to hear from you. I don't want you in my fucking LIFE! I'll do what you want; I'll go to school. But I don't want you here to see it. I'm not doing it for you. This is for ME. This is for THEM," I point a finger towards my fellow rehab patients.

"Now, GO." I extend a finger towards the sliding doors. My father simply nods, and grips my mother's hand tightly as they turn around and walk out of the Recovery Center. I'm nodding my head with satisfaction as I realize what I've done. I've taken a stand for myself. For all of us. I've made my choice; forged my path, and now, I have to see it through.

I can't wait to call Charlie and tell him all about it...

---

"Wow..." Kevin mumbles, as he stabs out his tenth cigarette into the now-full ashtray on my desk.

"That's fuckin' crazy, man."

"Yeah..." I nod my head as I light up another smoke for myself. "That's the way things go, I guess..."

"You never answered my question, though..." The white tiger continues, "How exactly did you deal with BJ's suicide?"

"To tell the truth? I didn't..." I say, "You never really can deal with something like that. All you can do is live your life, and hope for the best. The pain never goes away; the suffering never ends, but eventually, it won't bother you as much..."

He nods his head slowly, pondering over my answer as he crosses his arms over his chest. "What about Charlie?" he asks me. "Have you spoken to him lately? How's he feeling about the choice you made?"

"I called him a few days ago, on our anniversary," I tell him, "He sounded excited about the job when I first told him, a while back, but deep down inside, I know he feels unhappy. He wants me there with him, and there's nothing more I'd want than to be there for him. I just don't know what to do about it..."

I reach for a framed photo on my desk, and hand it over to Kevin. "That's BJ." I say, pointing to the lion with his arms wrapped around me and Max's heads. He chuckles as he sees the look on our faces. "Looks like that was a good day," he says. I nod my head and smile in response.

I check the clock on the wall, and utter a gasp of surprise when I see that it's past midnight.

"Well, shit... It's getting late, Kev, you should probably tuck in for the night."

Kevin nods, and gets to his feet. He sets the photo back on my desk, and reaches out his paw to shake my hand before he leaves. "Thanks for telling me your story. I can see why everyone looks up to you."

I grasp his paw firmly in my hand and give it a hard shake. "Anytime, man. If you ever need to get something off your chest, you know where to find me. Thanks for listening..."

He gives a smile as he turns around and heads for the door. I watch his tail swish from side to side as he leaves my office. I decide that it's time for me to get some sleep as well. Max is probably already knocked out in his bed, and I don't feel like disturbing him by going back to the room, so I put my feet up on the desk and lean back in my chair. I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest as I let myself fall into a peaceful slumber... It's not the first time I've had to sleep at my desk....

I'm woken up by the sound of excited chattering coming from the rec room.

I rub the crust from my eyes and check the wall clock. It's almost nine A.M. My legs are still propped up on the sturdy wooden desk, and I grit my teeth in pain as I lower them to the floor. Great... They're all cramped up. What the hell is going on out there?

I manage to grab my pack of cigarettes and light one up as I slowly raise myself from the chair. My back is killing me as well; I try to stretch myself out as good as I can. My mouth falls open and a long yawn escapes my lips. The cigarette twitches and shakes between the first two fingers of my right hand. I run my fingers through my messy hair, slicking it back as well as I can, before making my way to the door. I clear my throat loudly as I twist the knob and swing it open, poking my head out into the hallway to see what all the commotion is about.

There's a large group of patients and doctors gathered around the wall near the back of the rec room. I recognize it as the area where Kevin has been working on his mural. Huh... He must've finished it. That would explain the noise. I step out of my office and pull the door closed, placing the cigarette snugly between my teeth as I start walking towards the crowd.

When I reach the apparent spectacle, I begin to gently push my way to the front to see what all the hubbub is about. As I move past the last patient near the front, my eyes brush over the large paintings on the wall. My jaw drops and the lit cigarette falls to the floor, suddenly ignored. I find myself stepping forward slowly, my mind reeling from the shock and amazement at what I'm seeing. I hear a soft chuckle coming from next to me, and I turn my head to see Kevin sitting in one of the metal folding chairs, smoking contentedly. There are paint brushes, buckets of water, and empty tins of latex paint scattered all around him. His fur is splattered with multiple layers of color. His paws look like they've been dipped in some kind of tie-dye. He nods behind him, towards the completed work of art.

"What do you think?" he asks me.

I stutter as I try to find the appropriate words. I can't come up with anything; I'm speechless. I move closer to the painting, taking in every detail, every color, every familiar face.....

He's painted me... And Charlie... And BJ... And Max.

We're all sitting on what appears to be a metal picnic table. I'm leaning back with my head resting on the bare chest of my loveable shepherd... He has his arms wrapped tightly around my body, his muzzle resting on my shoulder as we grin widely at the viewers. I notice the unmistakeable shine of the platinum bands wrapped around the third digits of our left hands. BJ is seated to our left, his paws resting on his knees as he smiles warmly into the rec room. He's wearing the same shirt he had on when we took that photo in my office; he's got the same look of smug satisfaction across his face. Max is seated to the right of me and Charlie, smoking a cigarette absentmindedly while smirking. He's wearing his old black jeans, torn at the knees, and the long-lost shirt he'd once made that has "Mad Max" spray-painted across the front. I'm flabbergasted; I'm paralyzed with shock.

The detail is astounding. Their fur looks so real; as if I could touch the wall and feel the soft warmth. Kevin has captured BJ's eyes perfectly, along with the tone of his muscles pressing against the tight shirt he's wearing. Charlie looks exactly as I remember him; his form is slender, his expression is serene, exhuding feelings of pure love and contentment in his smile and his hazel eyes. I take another look at our intertwined hands, his paws firmly interlaced with my fingers, the two platinum engagement rings pressing against each other. The sight almost brings me to tears. Max looks as if he hasn't aged a day since I met him; he's still got that edgy smirk on his face. He looks as if he's about to reach out and pick the pocket of the closest spectator. It's priceless.

Then, I take a look at myself. I look so young. My face is still sharp, not quite as filled in as it has grown to become. My cheeks are slightly sunken in; my eyes are glazed over with that familiar sheen. I haven't yet put on the weight of four more years; I'm as skinny as a bone. Seeing myself how I once was makes me reach a hand down to my well-built stomach. It's taken me so long to build the physique I've always wanted. I can't believe I ever looked like that. It looks so real. My long, black hair is blowing in the wind, the strands falling over my eyes as I'm reaching back with one hand to scratch the fur behind Charlie's neck. My god...... I thought I'd missed him, but just seeing him like this makes me miss him even more. I hear the sound of rapid footsteps drawing closer as Max shoves his way through the crowd and comes to a halt next to me. His jaw drops as he sees the painting.

"Holy fuckballs..." he mutters. Typical Max. "Did I ever look like that?"

I run my eyes up and down his lithe body, and punch him playfully on the shoulder. "You still do, fox-boy." I inform him. A few members of the crowd let out scattered laughs. I turn to face Kevin.

"I don't know what to say..." I whisper. He shrugs his shoulders and drops his cigarette butt into one of the tubs of colored water.

"Then don't say anything, man. Listening to you last night, your story... It really inspired me. I got to thinkin', and I decided to change the topic of my painting. It's no longer about drug addiction. It's about friendship... About the long-lasting bond between the kind of people who'd always be there for each other, no matter what happens. It's about love, man..."

"...Thanks, Kev..." I say, extending my hand. He grips it in his paint-covered paw, and gives it a good, hard shake.

"You're welcome."

Max stands frozen, tracing over every detail of the painting with his eyes as he takes it all in. Suddenly, he shakes his head rapidly, and taps me on the shoulder. "I almost forgot, man! You gotta hear something. Come on, let's go to our room."

I nod my head and follow him to the room we've shared for the past few years. It hasn't changed much at all; everything is the same, from the beds to the bars on the window. The only thing we've added are some accessories. Like the radio he's directing me to, sitting on the table between our two beds.

"They've been playing it every twenty minutes for the past few hours. It's one of Charlie's new songs. I think it's about you."

I shove him aside and turn the dial to increase the volume as I hear the DJ announce that the song is about to begin. I can hear the soft, low notes of an acoustic guitar as the sounds of sad, mournful melancholy begin to play. I recognize Charlie's strained voice over the chords as he croaks out his song.

I couldn't wish away the pain.... It's driving me insane... We're so close and yet so far, We're torn apart....

In the twilight of the day, You'll place flowers on my grave, As you close your eyes and pray, For my heart.....

It's been a hundred lonely nights, Where I sit at home and cry, As the tears roll down my eyes, I think of you.....

Your love has left me scarred, But never changes what you are, You're the promise, meant for me, To see it through.....

When can I look in your eyes, and feel the pride swell up inside? Will you find me in our place? Where the sky fades into grey....

Can you tell me what to do? 'Cause I don't know what to say, I'm slowly dying in our place..... Where the sky fades into grey....

I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I switch the radio off. I never give the song time to end. It's already too much. My heart is pounding; my brow is slowly becoming slick with sweat. I have a decision to make... And I honestly don't know if I'll make the right choice. I take a moment to consider each option; the consequences and reactions of all parties involved. It's all so senseless. Just thinking about it, I feel so drained... I notice that I've been holding my breath, and I exhale loudly as I suck in panicked gasps of the facility's recycled air.

I'm about to help myself, or hurt myself.

I'm about to end something on the off-chance that something else can begin. I'm about to jump out of the frying pan, and into the freezer... I'm about to... I'm about---

"Max?" I call out, silencing my frenzied thoughts.

"Yeah?" he replies, moving to my side. I turn my head to face him, and I see his eyes go wide as he takes in the expression on my face.

"How well do you know my patients?"

"Is that a trick question?" he asks. "I know them as well as you do; we share patients, remember? We alternate the sessions."

"What would you say if I told you I needed to take a leave of absence?"

"I'd say, 'for how long?'"

"Indefinitely. Go ask Mary if she'll print up my resume for me. Tell her I'll owe her one. I've gotta start getting everything ready... Gotta clean out my office... Gotta take some time to say goodbye. Then, I've gotta book a flight."

"Why?" Max questions me. "Where are you gonna go?"

I feel a smile creep across my face as I give him his answer. After everything I've seen and heard during the last few minutes, the painting, the song, everything, my emotions, long suppressed, have begun to boil up inside of me. I can't take it anymore. I gotta do what I gotta do.

Call me a junkie, if you want. A junkie who needs a fix to mend his heart.

"I'm going home, Max. I'm going home."

---

Lyrics to "Under the Bridge", copyright Red Hot Chili Peppers, all rights reserved.

All other lyrics are mine.

That's Chapter 11, everyone. The longest chapter I've ever written in my life. I hope you all enjoy it; it took me nearly a week to get it all done. I tried to fit so much into this one chapter, that I don't know if it came out right. Let me know what you all think; I'm going right ahead to work on my next installment. As always, thanks for all your support, and any comments are very well appreciated.

--Ken