Scratched

Forty Three

FORTY THREE

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Beep...Beep... Beep...

Steadily I surfaced, and found myself staring into a bright light. Fluorescent beams cascaded down, blinding me momentarily. The smell of antiseptic and death hung heavy around me. The muffle of voices rumbled around me. I blinked, clearing my vision. Faces slowly defined until I could make out their features. I stared up, uncomprehending. I didn't know these people. I didn't know how I had got there. The last thing I remember was singing and then I was on my knees, staring into the crowd.

"Ms. Evans... Ms. Evans."

I snapped back into myself, looking up into the face of the man speaking to me. He was an older man, and looking at him I had no doubt he was a doctor. He had a concerned look on his face. "Can you hear me?" he asked me. I nodded. "Can you see me?" Again I nodded. He seemed satisfied with my answers, clearing up the worry that had been written across his face. "Do you remember what happened, Ms. Evans? What brought you here?"

I looked down at my hands, spinning my ring around my finger. I remembered it. I almost wished I didn't. I could still make out each individual face. I could feel the twist of my stomach. I could smell the scent of vomit. It was all right there. "Yes. I remember," I said quitely. My voice was scratchy. "Did I—did I overdose?" I needed to know. In my mind that's what I believed. I had taken too much, and now I was here. But I needed to hear him say it, make it all real.

But that's not what he did. Instead he shook his head, surprising me. "That is not correct. I can understand how you gathered that conclusion, however," he stated. "What happened to you was much different. If you had overdosed your organs would have shut down one by one, and you would have been fully conscious through it all. Much more painful. Much more serious." I stared at him, horrifed. I didn't need to know that! He cleared his throat. "You had an allergic reaction."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

He tapped his pen against his clipboard, considering where to begin. "We found traces of Cocaine Hydrochloride and Oxycodone in your system," he explained. "Although Cocaine Hydrochloride will not neccessararily trigger an allergic reaction Oxycodone will. This is what happened to you. You had a severe allergic reaction to the drug, landing you here. The effects you were feeling—confusion, faintness, vomiting, and hallucinations—were all from the use of Oxycodone. We were lucky. It could have been much more sincere. You had a lot in your system. Much more you might have overdosed."

I fell silent, weighing his words. I didn't know what to say. What could you say? The entire world had witnessed my fall. By now every major news source had probably covered the events of the night. My life would be splashed out across every front page, and every talk show. While rumors were flying rampant I was receiving word of a near overdose. What response could I give? I'm sorry? I was stupid? None of it would change the fact that it happened.

The doctor stayed a while longer asking questions and checking on me but soon after he departed, leaving me to my thoughts. I sunk down in bed, shutting off the lights. I emerged myself in darkness, wanting nothing more than to disappear. At some point I must have drifted off because I was shocked awake when the room was flooded with light once again. I pushed myself up in bed, looking around the room. My eyes landed on a form who was leisurely making its way to me. I blinked, clearing my vision. As my vision focused I recognized the figure and felt my stomach drop out.

"I trust I didn't disturb your sleep."

"Andrew?" I asked in disbelief.

"In the flesh," he answered but his voice carried a slight edge. It was so subtle I might have missed it. He stopped a few feet from where I rested on the bed. He dropped a magazine into my lap, and my heart seized up. I knew then this visit was not a friendly one. I picked it up, reading what was displayed on the cover. It was a photo from the concert the night before. It was taken a second before I had emptied my stomach on stage. My eyes were wild, unfocused. I hardly recognized the person in the picture. All around were words, proclaiming my near overdose and fall from grace. It was every bit as terrible as I had predicted.

My thoughts were shoved away as Andrew started speaking to me. I gripped the magazines as his words reached me. "I've been doing damage control, but there is little I can do. I'm not dealing with public drunkenness or a night of fun. I'm dealing with drugs and what was very nearly an overdose," he said in a flat tone. Silence filled the room as he let his words sink in, and what he said next cut deeper than anything else he could have said. "As a producer its hard to market a bad item." With those words he turned and left the room, leaving me alone once again. I stared after him, feeling myself drop deeper and deeper. I felt suspended. I didn't know what to make of this. It was all so grey, and I found that for once I didn't know what to do with it.

♪       ♫       ♪

I had been released from the hospital. The doctor told me that he had no reason to hold me any longer since my status wasn't critical. Before I had left he had passed me a card, and bid me good luck. I looked at the card in my hands—it was for a rehabilitation center. I guess I should have felt reassured, supported but I felt anything but that. As I left the hospital I crumbled up the card, shooting it into the trashcan as I passed.

I made my way back to the hotel. As I crossed the lobby I was sure the eyes of every person in the room was on me. I could feel them pressing into me, studying me like I was a specimen under a microscope. I had never wanted to be the object of everyone's attention or conversation. I had never liked that. I rushed to the stairs, opting on on the elevator. I couldn't handle four minutes of people watching me. I scrambled up the stairs, and down the hall. As I reached my door I ripped it open, darting inside. I slammed the door behind me, locking it. I leaned against it, closing my eyes for a second. My chest rose and fell.

Several seconds passed and i felt myself calm down. I was alone. I didn't feel the pressure of eyes on me or their scrutiny. I shoved away from the door, grabbing my suitcase from the corner of the room where I had tossed it last time I had been here. I found my items from the tour bus deposited in the entry way. Someone had been by to drop them off while I was in the hospital. I guess they really didn't expect me to be back. I felt tears threaten, and I quickly stamped them down. I wouldn't. I wouldn't let myself cry. I needed to be strong.

 I told myself this as I dropped my suitcase onto the bed. I scrapped up all the clothes I could find, shoving them into the suitcase. I pushed them down, cramming them into it. I collected my records and guitar Reed had gotten me for Christmas. I ran my fingers over it, feeling its smooth surface. I itched to play it, but at the same time the thought of playing was almost too much to bear. I swallowed around the lump that had formed in my throat, settling the guitar on the bed beside my suitcase. I turned, looking over the room for anything I might have missed. My eyes landed on a CD—my CD. I picked it up, holding it gently in my hands.

Obscure. Indistict. How perfectly that word seemed to fit now. That was me—indistinct. I could recall the hours I put into each song. I had killed myself working on this, and for what? What had it all been for? I had fucked everything up. My mind flashed back to the front page of the magazine. What must my fans think? I was an addict, and I would never be worthy of their respect again. I felt anger rise up in me. Blind, incomprehensible anger. I moved, throw the CD at the wall. It shattered, scattering across the pristine carpet. And then I stared to cry, and holding them back wasn't an option.

* * * AUTHOR'S NOTE

The end is nigh! Five chapters to go!