Saved By Steven (the first story)

15. Fallout

Mick helped Lauren get dressed with quiet care. She trembled as he guided her arms into a shirt and held her hand as they walked downstairs. She clung to him, and when they reached the living room, she curled up beside him on the couch like a child. He wrapped a blanket around her and ordered food she probably wouldn't eat.
Then, he called the doctor.
This was spiraling out of control—and Lauren wasn't going to stop it. So Mick was gonna try. 

Outside, Joe sat alone, strumming his guitar on the porch like nothing had happened. Sunlight hit his face, but there was no light in his eyes.
The rest of the band found him there.
"What the fuck was that, dude?" Tom snapped, the first to speak.
Steven didn't say anything at first. He just stared. His fists were clenched at his sides, jaw tight with rage.
"Really, Joe?" Steven's voice rose, raw and broken. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you'd changed."
Joe didn't look up. Just kept playing.
Steven stepped forward, his voice now a shout. "You didn't just cross a line. You violated her. Don't you get that?"
"She didn't say no," Joe muttered.
"But she didn't say yes either, did she?" Joey said, stepping in.
Joe finally looked up.
"You violated her trust," Joey continued. "She thought she was safe with us. Like that Sunday—you saw what happened then. You knew what she's been through."
Joe set the guitar down slowly, like he was bored of it. "No. You were protecting her. Steven was. Mick was. I never agreed to that. I told you this was bullshit. I didn't want anything to do with her."
"But you did get involved, Joe," Steven hissed. "And what you did—what you took—that's on you. Mick took her in. We came here because we trust him. You were supposed to treat her with respect."
"I didn't sign up to babysit some fragile junkie," Joe snapped. "All I ever wanted was to focus on the music. You're the one who always gets distracted—saving some girl, chasing some broken bird. Same story, every time."

Steven took a step closer. "She was raped, Joe. Four weeks ago. You saw what that did to her. And you did it again."
Joe's eyes darted away, then back. There was something like regret—but buried beneath layers of ego and pain.
"Don't turn this into a damn martyr story, Steven. You always do this. You care more about fixing lost girls than keeping the band together. Well, if that's your priority, don't expect a concert on Friday."
That silenced the others for a moment.

Back inside, Mick was helping Lauren sip from a glass of water. Her face was blank. She wasn't crying anymore, but she wasn't really present either.

Mick had seen a lot over time. But this? This broke something inside him.

He tucked her into the guest bed, her eyes barely open. She didn't speak. She didn't resist. She just let herself disappear under the covers.
When he came back outside, Brad was waiting near the steps.
"Mick, how is she?"
"She's not okay," Mick said. "She's barely responding. I think this broke her. She was already on the edge when she came here."
"What do we do now?"
"I called the doctor. He's on his way."

Just then, Steven returned, jaw still clenched from his fight with Joe.
"Joe's a mess," Steven said. "But he's right about one thing—we do need to keep the music going. I'll handle rehearsals. Let Mick focus on Lauren. After the concert, I'll take time to help her properly. She needs it. And I've got the means."
"That's all I ask," Joe said quietly, walking up. He avoided everyone's eyes.
Steven didn't even look at him. "You're not forgiven."
Joe gave a dry shrug. "Didn't ask to be."
But something in his voice cracked. Beneath all that bravado, there was still a man trying to stay afloat—drowning quietly, the way cowards often do.

The gates buzzed open and a black car pulled in. A man stepped out—trim, older, with a leather satchel.
"That was quick," Mick said.
"You sounded worried," the doctor replied. "Urgent. So I dropped everything.
"She's in bad shape, doc. Not talking, not really moving.  And she flinches—like she's expecting to be hit. Like before."
"Has she eaten? Hydrated?"
"I gave her some food. She's got a water bottle she keeps close, but I don't think she drinks much. And as for taking care of herself..." Mick hesitated. "That's the real problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"She's using. Coke, heroin, probably pills too. I found a bunch of stuff in her bag."
The doctor nodded grimly. "Show me to her."
Mick led him to the guest room.

The doctor nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm going to need quiet and no distractions. Just you and me for now. Let's not overwhelm her."
Mick led him inside. The doctor took a moment to observe Lauren from the doorway before entering. Lauren was under the covers, curled up like a child. Her eyes fluttered open when they walked in, but she didn't move.
The doctor crouched beside her.
Can you hear me?" 
Lauren nodded. 
"Good. I'm not here to make you do anything. I'm just here to help. I need to ask you a few questions. You can nod or shake your head—whatever's easiest. Is that okay?
Another nod.
"Are you in pain right now?"
She shook her head.
"Are you feeling overwhelmed—anxious?"
She nodded immediately.
"Would you like something to calm ya nerves?"
She nodded again, eyes darting toward her bag protectively.

"I need to know what you've taken. Can I look in your bag?"
At first, she clutched the blankets.
The doctor kept his voice calm, patient. "I can only help you if you let me. Just a peek. That's all."
Eventually, she nodded.
"Thank you," he said gently.

He laid out the contents in neat rows: a few syringes, some crushed white powder in a plastic vial, a small bottle labeled "heroin," scattered Xanax pills and a razor blade wrapped in tissue.
He turned back to her, his tone clinical but still gentle.
"Lauren, did you use cocaine today?"
She nodded.
"Heroin?"
She nodded again.
"Any pills? Xanax or anything else?"
She hesitated, then shook her head.
He gave her a shot. "This will help you sleep. Just rest, okay?"

In the hallway, the doctor closed the door behind them."She's not in immediate danger," he said. "But she's in a fragile state—physically and psychologically. The drug use isn't recreational. It's trauma management. Likely compounded by PTSD, unresolved grief, and a recent shock to her system."

"She was attacked again," Mick said. "A few days ago. Steven stepped in. She hasn't spoken about it to anyone."
"That tracks. And based on her drug intake, I'd say she's trying to shut everything down—numb herself entirely."
"So, what now?"
"First, we let her rest. She needs sleep—natural sleep—not drug-induced. What I gave her will taper off in a few hours. Then we need to gently start a plan: detox, therapy, stabilization. But only when she is ready. You cannot force it."
"I'm worried about what happens if she runs again."
"She probably will," the doctor said frankly. "That's the pattern. But she trusted you enough to give up the bag. That means something."
"She trusted Steven too. Maybe I could ask him to talk with her—when she's more stable."
"That could be helpful. Peer connection is powerful in trauma recovery. But only if he's calm, patient, and consistent. She doesn't need a hero—she needs someone who listens without judgment."
Mick nodded.

"One more thing," the doctor added. "Do not try to remove her from this environment right now. She needs familiar people, consistent signals, and physical safety. No rehab centers yet. That's not a fix—it's a transition."
"Got it. What do I do until then?"
"Keep her warm. Fed, if she'll eat. Don't ask too many questions. Just be present. Let her lead."
"And you'll come back?"
"I'll check in tomorrow. If she worsens—or if anything changes—call me, no matter the hour."
"Thank you."