Satellite-Sequel to God Save My King (Steve Jones FanFic)

Kimmy-Static

As soon as Dr. Fields had finished threatening me with write-ups and pay cuts for making a phone call, I waited until he had disappeared back into his office to turn around and start breaking more rules. Rather than abuse my position to make yet another phone call, this time, I was going to take a second peek at Steve's file. I still hadn't gotten a chance to see what he had done to land him in probation and, although I knew I should just mind my own business or at the very least ask Steve himself, my curiosity had gotten the best of me.

Jones, Stephen P. The folder was poking out further than the others, and my guilty conscience tried to reason that that surely was a sign that the file wanted to be read. Of course, it might have been sticking out from the fact that I had fumbled to hide it when Dr. Fields had come storming towards my desk earlier, but that just sounded a lot less likely than the first option.

With trembling fingers, I plucked the file from its spot between 'Johnson, Michael S.' and 'Joplin, Tammy A.' I took a deep breath, counted to ten. When I exhaled, my heart was still hammering against my ribs. Another deep breath, count to thirty, exhale. My stomach tangled itself into knots as it leapt about the confines of my gut.

Okay, I thought to myself, my eyes glancing at Dr. Fields' office. If Dr. Fields comes out in the next minute, it'll be a sign that I shouldn't open this. If he doesn't come out, that's the universe telling me it's okay.

I sat with baited breath as one minute dragged by with no sign of life from Dr. Fields. He didn't step out to ask me to grab him lunch, or to pick up his dry cleaning, or even just to complain about his wife.

That had to be a sign.

I sucked in another breath, my mind buzzing with about a million crimes that Steve may have committed to cause him to drop back into my life again. All of them horribly illegal, and terribly dangerous.

He's a jewel thief, I pondered as I pulled apart the folder, revealing the pages inside. He's always had a bad case of sticky fingers. Perhaps his Pistols royalties have run dry. Money is tight, and he needed some quick cash.

I sifted through the medical papers and contact information to find the legal documents underneath. I searched until I found a paper with a section titled VIOLATIONS in big, bold letters. My eyes began to scan the list.

The suspect was apprehended while driving what appeared to be a stolen motorcycle. Suspect offered no California driver's license, motorcycle or otherwise. Suspect was driving with no proof of insurance. (NOTE: All charges of grand theft auto are to be dropped. The vehicle in question belonged to a Mr. William Michael Albert Broad, he does not wish to press any charges.)

While being questioned by responding officers, suspect showed signs of intoxication. Breathalyzer tests done at the scene show blood alcohol concentration levels to be 0.35. Suspect was searched and was found to be holding 2g of what we now know to be diamorphine hydrochloride, white heroin. Suspect was brought back to the 12th precinct where a full body and cavity search was conducted. No more substances were found.

My blood ran cold as I tugged my eyes away from the last sentence and placed them back in the middle of the paragraph. That part about the BAC and the white heroin. Those numbers-0.35, 2g-I kept jumping back and forth between the two, unsure of which one was worse.

0.35 BAC. My brain worked its way back into my old university text books, scanning the pages until it found that damn number. Just 0.05 BAC away from an onset of a coma, followed by death by respiratory arrest.

My stomach dropped into my feet, and I had to choke back the tears that were beginning to form in my throat. My heart had already had enough of this, of imagining Steve stumbling around in a drunken stupor, and I was beginning to regret that I had gone into Steve's file at all. But my brain kept going, the medical knowledge in me unable to stop once it had started.

Diamorphine hydrochloride, white heroin. One of the most refined forms of dope one could get their hands on, and perfect for shooting up due to its pure and water-soluble salt form. Probably packages shipped all the way from the 'Golden Triangle' somewhere in Southeast Asia. An addict's wet dream.

Already, I could feel my heart shattering into millions of tiny pieces. As it tore a hole right through my chest and straight into my lungs, I found myself gasping for air. Tears pricked at my eyes and I instinctively grasped at the familiar padlock necklace, hoping that it might save me from being sucked into whatever void was forming in front of my eyes. In fact, it did the complete opposite.

Suddenly, I was right back in that cramped bathroom somewhere in the heart of New York. Stained linoleum cracked the corners of the room, and a faucet made dripping sounds beside me. Blood was pulsing through my veins at a roaring speed, the sound of it rushing in my ears. As I turned to face the bathtub, a shock of black hair tickled my cheek.

That familiar feeling of helplessness clawed at the back of my mind, digging and digging as I slipped further into a mental hole of childlike terror. Here I was thinking that I could just get a job as a social worker and everything would turn out fine. But that wasn't the case at all, not even close.

I turned to look into the bathtub, to see the sight that had haunted me for three very long, very painful years. The sight of John; cold, stiff, gone.

But the vision had changed. John had disappeared from the bathtub altogether and, in his place, lay Steve Jones. The curls of his hair cushioned his head as he rested up against the tiled wall. Eyes shut, lips a thin line, his whole body frozen stiff as death took over.

This was what I had to look forward to. For John, for Steve, for the rest of my life, I could never save anyone I loved. I was doomed to an existence of being helpless, boring Kimberly Abram, standing in static as her friends drop like flies around her.