Hitting the Bottom Ch. 02

Author's note:

Welcome back to this story, y'all! Hope you like this second chapter :-)

If you're new to this story - welcome aboard! It would make more sense if you read Ch. 01 first, and if you've got a bit more time you may want to check out my previous series - "Lucky Bastard" and "Whiskey and Rye" - before starting this one, since they are all kind of intertwined.

Finally - another whole-hearted thank you to the wicked Brit - my co-creator and editor.

Enjoy!

xoxo

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dan:

Sunday at the hospital proves to be a unique kind of torture. The view from my window shows a beautiful day outside, and inside the ward every patient has their friends and family around them, chatting and laughing. Everyone but me.

I am painfully aware of just how alone I am. The reality of my situation sinks in, pulling me down again into my dark despair. My parents are both dead, I have no siblings or cousins or any other close family, and I have single-handedly destroyed the little family I had created with my ex-wife. My friends from the force will shun me now that they know what I did; even my best friend told me he hated my guts.

I can't blame them. I share the sentiment.

And yet I have already resigned to the fact that suicide isn't an option for me because it would only hurt Naomi more.

So what now?

It hurts too much to think about and I find myself escaping to sleep as often as I can. I spend most of the day slumbering in-between check-ups and meals; but by the afternoon I can sleep no more. I am filled with restless agitation and the need to leave my bed becomes all-consuming. I reach for the call button and press it, and within a moment a distorted voice sounds through the intercom:

"Yes, Mr. Moreno?"

Ugh. That 'Mr. Moreno' again.

"Er, would it be possible for me to get out of bed somehow? Maybe get a wheelchair so that I can move about a bit?" I try my best to keep the frustration out of my voice.

"Yes, we can do that. I'll bring one over in a few moments."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." I really am grateful at the prospect of leaving the confines of my room and the sentiment ring through my words.

A few moments later Hanna, the matronly nurse who I had previously met, comes into my room pushing a wheelchair and parks it side-by-side to the bed in a way similar to how Sandra did it with the U-shaped chair yesterday. I shift uncomfortably at the memory.

"So, Mr. Moreno, I assume you know the drill?" She asks this matter-of-factly and I respond in fashion.

"Yes ma'am, Sandra had already put me through the paces yesterday, and I have done it again this morning with the help of another nurse when I needed to use the bathroom. Oh and please call me Dan. Please."

"All right, sure. Good. Let's do it then. Let me adjust the bed for you."

When the bed is lowered all the way down and its head is pulled upright I swing my own legs one at a time to the side so that my feet are flat on the floor. I sit up straight and notice that I am actually quite steady, and the dull pain in my head and my ribs increases only slightly with my movements. Still I don't try to move to the chair on my own and wait for Hanna to get into position close at my side and help me to my feet and then down into the chair. Thankfully this time I manage to actually take most of my weight on my own using my hands on the armrests.

"Very good, Dan. Now I'm sure you can figure out how to wheel yourself, so feel free to roam the place. You may want to go outside to the balcony, the weather's fine and it may actually do you some good to breathe some fresh air. Please be in your room by 5:30pm for dinner, all right?"

"Yes ma'am. Thank you."

With a quick nod and a polite smile she turns and leaves the room and I put my hands on the circular handles running the edges of the wheels and feel a tiny flutter of excitement down in my belly as I give them the first test shove. They yield easily and I roll out of the room, pausing momentarily at the hall outside my door to take in my temporary accommodations for the first time.

It's a small neurological ward in a provincial hospital; only a dozen or so patient rooms in total judging by the number of doors I can see from my spot at the end of the wide corridor, and I know each of them would host up to two patients. I've been here before - not in this specific ward but in other parts of the hospital, visiting injured friends and more recently sitting by my father's bedside. For whatever reason the place feels eerily homey.

The white-washed walls and old sesame-stone tiled floors show some wear and tear, the furniture is minimal, and the equipment is not exactly state-of-the-art. At the same time everything looks neat and orderly, with traces of disinfectant lingering in the air. What's more, the place is well-lit by the bright sunshine pouring in from large windows, their sea-blue-and-green curtains pulled all the way back. As hospitals go this one looks a bit run-down and probably operating under a tight budget, but at the same time kind of... cheerful.

The nurses' station is in the middle of the ward over to my left and beyond it there is a small seating area complete with chairs, a few small tables and a wall-mounted TV set that is currently tuned to a live soccer game. A couple of older male patients are watching it with avid interest and provide on-going commentary, while their wives, dressed in their traditional long-sleeved dark gowns and hair scarves, chat quietly with each other at their sides.

As I wheel myself slowly down the hall I catch small glimpses of other patients in their rooms, surrounded by their visitors. Doing my best to ignore my ever-present sense of loneliness I head over to the sitting area, and to the small double doors that open to the balcony. Thankfully they are sliding doors so I manage to get myself out and close them behind me, surprised at the huge relief I feel at finding myself by my own on the small porch. Lonely as I am, I can't stand the thought of idle chit-chat with strangers at the moment.

I turn my chair to face the sun and slump back a little, leaning my head against the padded head-rest and closing my eyes, letting the exposed skin in my legs and arms and neck and face soak up its warmth. It's pretty hot in fact, but a light breeze takes the edge away from the glaring sun. I focus my mind on listening to the sounds of birds chirping in the trees nearby and relax...

It is then that the tears start to slowly trickle down my cheeks. I feel so absolutely wretched that I just can't help myself.

The Shift are all enjoying their time with their own families while I sit in tormented despair. Not one of my buddies has taken the time to visit. Not one except for Jon, the only person keeping me going. Everything I have worked for over the last 20 years is gone. I have lost my job. I know nothing else but how to be a cop. I have never been unemployed before so I don't know what to do next. I still have my rent and utilities and other commitments, and while I have some money left aside from my half of the house, as well as a small inheritance, I know my savings won't last forever. I'm scared shitless to be honest.

And nobody understands.

Nobody actually understands why I want to be a cop, why I went to the Academy in the first place. It wasn't for the uniform or the power. It wasn't so I can order people about knowing they can't oppose me. It wasn't so I can arrest people or book them for minor traffic violations. It wasn't, and still isn't, an ego trip. Nothing could be further from the truth.

It is all about doing good, bringing positive impact to society, to my community. It's about helping people that are hurt, frightened, in trouble or just plain out of their depth and in need of someone to put them back on their feet again. It's what I do. It's what I LOVE doing. And I'll never have the chance to do that again.

Nobody can Imagine the satisfaction there is to be had in reuniting a lost child with their mother, seeing both their overwhelming relief. Helping reassure a badly injured and trapped person after a car crash, and letting them know that all the minor worries such as contacting their family are being taken care of. Holding the hand of an elderly person after their spouse of 50 years has passed away. Setting a young hooligan to rights and seeing him change to a path of decency from a potential life of crime. Nothing can give a greater satisfaction.

And the camaraderie. Second to none. Knowing that if your back is to the wall then all your colleagues will be racing to help you, just as you would to them. Gone and never to be experienced again. Lost forever.

Walking the streets at 4am when all are asleep safe and sound in their beds relying on me to watch out for the nefarious souls who walk the earth, wishing them harm. No More.

And now that I need help getting back on my feet, who's gonna help me? Well? Where the fuck are they?!

Nowhere to be seen. All at home with their families leaving me to flounder in a sea of grief, even if it is of my own making. Pathetic loser. I feel my shoulders shaking with my choked sobs, and am even more disgusted with myself. Crying like a pussy over the life I'd ripped apart with my bare hands.

FUCK IT ALL!

*

Suddenly I am sick of wallowing in my own melodrama.

I know I am being irrational. I know the federation will help with my doctors bills. I know Jon will still be around. And at the end of the day deep down I know that there is only one person who can sort this mess out. Me.

So with a deep long last look inside myself I grab ahold of my self pity and thrust it back where it belongs, in the gutter. I'm stronger than this. I know I am. I have proved it over and over again, time after time. And while this is a different kind of challenge than any I've faced before I know there is no other option but to face it head-on... since running from it had already been tried and failed. I straighten up in my chair and carefully shake myself out of it, and fill my lungs with the sweet warm afternoon air.

*

So , what will I do in the future? All I am trained for is coppering, and bouncers in Mothercare jobs don't often appear on the Jobs listings. What do I know how to do? What good can I bring to others if not through my service on the force? There must be something I could do to be useful in this world; something I could do that I could be proud of, even in a small way... Right?

And then it dawns on me what I could actually do.

I remember the countless times I've visited elderly couples, young single mothers, busy professionals without the time...all needing small jobs doing around the house. Shelves to be put up, flat pack furniture to be built, roofs to be cleaned, locks and lightbulbs to be changed, rooms to be painted... All jobs too small for the tradesmen, but right up my alley.

I can do this and still serve a purpose in life. Still help the people who can't help themselves.

My small police pension from being medically discharged will pay the bills, these jobs will put the food on the table. And with that my mind rushes forward, already thinking about the logistics. Advertising, set up costs, leaflet drops, area to cover, purchase and storage of tools. And while my thoughts run ahead with the plans, another part of me observes from the side.

I know that I have found my future.

For the first time in a week my mind is clear; the nausea is almost gone and the aches and pains from my injuries are nothing but small nuisance, easily ignored. My stomach rumbles and with a start I realize that I'm hungry. I pivot my wheelchair and get back inside; it's almost dinner time and I chuckle to myself thinking I am actually looking forward to the hospital food tonight.

*

"You seem better."

Jon is back at my bedside, looking at me curiously. He's wearing civilian clothes - old sweats and a worn T-shirt, to be exact - and seems like he's been working out just prior to coming in to see me, his shirt sticking to his back and his brow covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He looks disgustingly healthy and fit and I fight the resentment I can feel rising inside me, reaching instead for that newly-found hope in my heart and holding on to it for dear life.

"I feel better. They let me out of bed today and I spent some time outside; I think they're going to release me tomorrow."

Jon nods approvingly. "That's great to hear, man. What time do you need me to pick you up?"

I start protesting and then remember he's supposed to escort me home to get my police-issued gun and other equipment and shut up before the words leave my mouth. Jon seems to understand simply by seeing the look on my face.

"Yeah. Also I've got your key; I locked up after us when the ambulance came. So what time do you think they'll let you go?"

I wince. "I don't know for sure, but it's probably not going to be too early - I would assume an hour or so after the doctors' visit ends so sometime late morning I guess. I could ask them and call you when I have a more solid ETD."

Jon nods again. "All right. I'm working the evening shift tomorrow so have the morning pretty open; I'll keep it that way for you so that I can swing by whenever you call. Good thing my place is as close to here as it is, you won't have to sit around waiting for too long."

Man, but I'm grateful to still have Jon. "Thanks man, I really do appreciate it. All of it."

He waves his hand as if to say 'no biggie' and I reach out and grab his wrist to catch his attention. His eyes jump back up to lock with mine. "Seriously Jon. I don't know what I've done to deserve you but just so you know your being here - your support through all this... it means the world to me. I - just... Thank you." My fingers squeeze around his forearm, emphasizing my words.

Jon looks soberly back at me, his lips set in a grim line. "You've been my best friend for twenty years, Dan. Ever since the Academy. You've probably saved my life on a couple of occasions, too. What you did to Naomi... you screwed up so bad I'm not sure how you could ever make up for it, nor do I know how you're gonna pick yourself up and carry on from here. But you're my friend, and I'm not gonna simply toss you away like yesterday's newspaper."

He wraps his fingers around my own wrist, returning my squeeze so that our hands are clasped together in the kind of grip someone would give a drowning man to pull him out of the currents. I give him a crooked smile, the left side of my face still swollen quite badly though not as bad as it was yesterday.

"Thanks, mate."

He smiles faintly back at me. "You're welcome, buddy. Now get some more rest and I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"Yeah, a'right. See ya, Jon." He gets up and leaves the room, and I take in a sharp breath before releasing it slowly. I haven't even had a chance to tell him about my idea. But that's okay, we have all the time in the world to discuss it. Tomorrow will be soon enough.

*

Sandra is back for the night shift. Her voice carries over to my room when she comes in and hello's her colleagues at the nurse stations. It's not that she's being loud - not at all in fact - but for some reason it seems like my ear is attuned to her frequency, snapping me to attention.

That melodic voice triggers a barrage of images in my mind - being naked and powerless in the shower while she bathes me, her hand in the latex glove gripping my cock firmly while her other hand wraps the warm, soapy washcloth around it and rubs it in a sleek, tight circular motion...

FUCK!

I feel that damned stirring again at my crotch. This is pathetic. Get a grip, officer.

I look around me frantically trying to find something else to focus on. If only I had my cell phone with me I could probably find some stupid game to play, but it's been left somewhere back at home. There's no TV in my room, no book, no magazines, nothing to distract me. Just me and my runaway thoughts.

I can't stay here like this. It'd drive me nuts. A painful chuckle follows that thought. I'm already nuts, what's the difference?

STOP.

I need to stop thinking like that. Like a loser. Think constructively.

Constructive. Yes. My new future. Becoming a handyman. Let's get back to that.

FOCUS.

I breathe deeply and exhale slowly. I need to start putting my vague thoughts and ideas to paper, make them into a proper plan. I grab and press the call button.

"Yes, Dan?" It's Sandra. She remembered I wanted her to call me Dan. Good g-- NO! Stop.

I need to clear my throat before I can speak coherently. "Ahm, I - I need some pen and papers, something to write with. Do you have anything I could use?"

"Er... Well that's a somewhat unusual request... but I'm sure I can come up with something. Give me a couple of minutes; I'll see what I can do for you."

"Yeah, sure. Thank you."

She comes into the room a few minutes later carrying a clipboard loaded with several sheets of paper neatly cut out from a notebook and a pen, and hands them over to me.

"Here you go, Dan. I'll need that clipboard and the pen back when you're done."

"Thanks, Sandra." I take the items from her hand and stare at them. The clipboard has a large psychedelic floral print on its back in different shades of bright purples and pinks, and the pen is some kind of dark lavender color.

"Too girly for you?" She smirks down at me, clearly amused at my bewildered expression.

"I - no, no that's fine. That's perfect. Thank you. I was just wondering if these were standard hospital issue, is all. It's an... interesting color scheme."

Sandra grins sheepishly at my words. "Nah, these are mine. I brought my schoolwork with me to make better use of the peace and quiet in the wee hours of the night... and pens are surprisingly hard to come by at the station; each one of us nurses holds onto her own with a passion. I find sticking with odd-colored ones useful; it makes it easier to trace them down and reclaim them."

I nod in sympathetic understanding. "Yeah I know what you mean - it can be the same for us cops, too. Never thought of that trick with the odd-colored pens though. That's smart!"

Her smile widens and lightens up her blue eyes. It transforms her face from pretty to breathtakingly beautiful. "A-ha. So you're a cop then?"

I start nodding but stop short, a painful pang in my chest, and then I surprise myself when the truth simply slips out my lips: "Yeah, well, used to be."

"Oh." She looks undecided for a moment and then adds, somewhat reluctantly: "You - you wanna talk about it?"

I shrug. "Not really, no. I mean, you know I attempted suicide. I heard you saying as much to Jon the other night..." I wave away her distressed expression. "It's all right, don't worry about it. I actually appreciate that you did; it was the right thing to do even if it wasn't exactly following protocol." She exhales her relief and I continue. "Anyways, they wouldn't let me keep my job now. Can't really trust me with a gun, you know... hence 'used to be'."

She nods softly. "Must be tough, losing your job on top of whatever it was that made you want to check out."

Her gentle understanding is almost my undoing. I refuse to accept it, and instead force out a humorless laugh as if to say 'no biggie' though we both know that's a lie. "Yeah, well. I made this mess and if there's any way out of it it's up to me to figure it out. Which is why I asked for these papers - I need to start making some plans. So thank you again for these" I gesture at the items.

Obviously sensing my reluctance to talk more about any of it she nods curtly and half-turns to leave and I feel a surprising sense of loss over her imminent departure. Grabbing for an excuse to keep her near me for another moment I blurt out: