losing the battle (the final chapter)

Published by poisoned_apple in the blog poisoned_apple's blog. Views: 64

my eyes were dry and the cieling seemed to be moving in a most peculiar way. my hand waved limply
searching to my left bedside drawer.
"it's not there anymore" simon's voice was booming and unwelcome.
"simon, first of all why are you still here and secondly where is my water bottle?"
"okay, we'll play it your way then. firstly im here because believe it or not i care about
whether you might choke to death on your own vomit, secondly your silver springs bottle full
of vodka is happily on it's way to the tip with the rest of the crap i threw out of your
hovel while you were comatosed" although his tone was light and mocking his face was plain
and serious. i rubbed my eyes and pulled back the duvet and felt a harsh chill stab my body.
i looked up at simon as i held my heavy head, he looked pale and dark blue circles crept around
his eyes. it looked as though he hadnt slept in a year.

"im sorry simon" my words fell in the air and seemed to dissolve like sugar in weak tea.
"you're always sorry afterwards, it never seems to stop you going back for more though
does it?" i wasn't sure if the swelling in my stomach was guilt or sickness, but i didn't like

"you dont look to good" simon held my chin as he inspected my eyes and face.
"you dont look so hot either" i retorted "and your hands are chuffing freezing" i raised my
arm to pull his hand away from my face and he grabbed my wrist firmly.
"stop doing this to yourself" his brow lowered and his eyes were sad and dark like an october
"doing what? im fine, it's just a hangover" i sighed.
"you know what im talking about bec, stop lying to yourself. this isn't healthy"

there came a knock at the door and i hauled my body up from my bed, simon glanced at me through
the corner of his eye and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
the knocking continued, loud and rapid followed by a familliar voice through the letter box.
"becca! becca! are you home? it's doctor jay! are you there?!" his tone was of the
friendly and concerned nature that only casual aquaintenses can muster.
opening the door i saw doctor jay, holding his suitcase above his head to shelter himself from
the rain. he was a pleasantly tanned man, originally from malta and not particularly keen on
the typicall brittish weather. his muscular arms shivered as he asked if he may come in.
"yeh sure, you want a coffee or something?" he smiled his response as he wiped his feet
dilligently before walking on the carpet.

"how you feeling bec? everybodies been a little worried about you after lastnight" his smile
remained but now seemed more forced than before, more cautious, perhaps even a little nervous.
"i'd just had a bit too much to drink thats all, im okay, really" i mirrored his smile.
"listen, i know it was your birthday but you really shouldn't drink like that while you're
still on your meds" his dark eyes showed warmth and kindness.
"i've stopped taking them" i knew what the response would be, but i'd stopped caring now.simon
was right, it was time for the lies to stop.
"becca, why, why when you were doing so well?"
"those things were making me a god damn zombie, you know where that word comes from jay? it's
a french word, it means brain dead. do you know what that feels like...being dead inside?"
i swallowed hard as i tried to force my tears back.
"just go jay, i'll be fine, i'll deal with it in my own way from now on, no more drugs"
it was then he wrapped his strong arms around me and i realised just how truly weak i was.
"bec, please let me help you. the drugs were just one option, what if i get you some therapy?
i could call one of my friends, garth sheilds, he's a good guy?" his hands were warm on my
back as he pleaded with me.
"it's fine!" my temper now swayed between anger and panic as i pulled myself away from him.
"simons taking care of me"
doctor jay let out a sigh of despair as he pulled me to his chest again in a tighter embrace,
he kissed my hair and his breath ran warm down my neck.

"becca, simon can't take care of you anymore" he said slowly and more calmly than the
trembling in his chest suggested he really was.
"becca, why wont you let me in? i just want to help you, i can take care of you" i couldn't see
his face right then, but i knew he was crying.

part of me believed him. he was right, he could take care of me, he was a doctor after all. he
was the one who had been trying to help me. i wasn't stupid, i knew i had a problem and he was
there for me. simon wasn't reliable, where was he for the last fortnight?

"i know simon doesn't have a good track record jay, i'll admit that, but i need him right now.
he knows i need him now and he's come back to look after me" i tried my best to sound
calming without being patronising. i'd never realised just how much he actually cared about me.

he looked me in the eyes. his own, still wet, were now heavy with despair.a strange kind of
mist seemed to consume the kitchen in gloom and the weight of the news he bore in the next
few words nearly crushed me.

"simon never came back becca" his face was serious and concerned.
"what are you on about? he's in the bathroom right now" he took my hand and walked me towards
the bathroom door. as he knocked it the door fell ajar. it was empty but for a few towels
and a pile of unwashed clothes. next to the sink was an empty silver springs bottle.

"he probably just nipped out after you got here, big deal" a sickening feeling was swelling in
my stomach again. my head pounded furiously and beads of sweat trickled down my cheek dripping
off my chin.

"no, he came back, he was here, he came back!" i screamed and pounded at jays chest with arms
that felt about as usefull as two lengths of wet string. he stood there with patience and let
my grief take it's course.

the fact of the matter was, simon had never came back. he had died nearly a year ago when we
went to the faulklands, in my arms on the 7th of june 1982. he was just twenty years
old and one of the 258 brittish soldiers killed. he could have been anyone, but he wasn't
he was simon tann and i was responsible for him.....and for his death. memories of the
coffin draped in glorious red white and blue came floodimg back into my mind. where was the glory on that battle field? now with all that was left of my broken mind and my broken heart
the only thing my existance would everstand for was that wars can be won with guns and
violence,but someone always loses the battle in the end.

(first short story i've done for a long time, please please please let me know what you think :) )
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