When I awoke, I found that my brain had trouble communicating messages with my eyelids. It felt like someone gorged out my eyes with their fingernails and I was actually trying to open the sockets that used to contain them. How I didn’t feel it was a mystery… well maybe not. Why bother buying drugs on the street if the ones at the hospital are more potent? They were so strong that I didn’t even begin my heroin cravings until a bit later on.
Then my sense of reality came back to me in flashes. I’d left the dream world that I was in, but was it really all just a dream? Did I really care? No, but still I had questions that wouldn’t subside and answers that wouldn’t weaken my curiosity. And there were still pieces of my life that were missing; huge chunks of reality mixed in whatever my subconscious made up for the dreams. As I tried to move smaller pieces of my body (which proved unsuccessful) I put the dreams into categories and picked them apart so that I could deduct the real from the fake.
The Leighanne murder dream had to be a fake. The dreams were all set before the end of tour party, and she was bitching at me already then. I remembered her and Brian in the corner very clearly. But you know, it’s dreams like that which kind of make me think. Do I really want Leighanne dead? If not, then why do I still remember this particular set of dreams? On top of that, why would the guys pin the entire murder on me? Is this some kind of indirect sign? All I know is that my dreams are very messed up and I think that I should invest in a psychologist like I did in the dream.
In the first part of the Leighanne dream, Brian was pounding on my bunk. I thought about it really hard and realized that it was Leighanne, trapped and dying under the bus, tapping out her location to me. Since she was tapping for so long, she must have been still alive when the guys dumped her under the bus. Therefore…that’s just sick, sick, sick. What could tempt my subconscious to come up with that crap?
The Howie thing had to be fake as well, because we went on vacation together in the middle of our tour and I don’t remember being sore at him. Also, I would definitely remember if he took bladder control pills. On top of all that, I’m not that weak. It would be me having a problem with Howie, not Howie having a problem with me. He’s a really nice guy, and he doesn’t like to fight with us because things become awkward until somebody is man enough to apologize.
Now it was starting to get a bit harder. There was a large possibility that I was attacked from the bus and that I went into the arena to ask for help. The guys were actually nice to me in the dream, and that’s not far at all from reality because they are usually nice to me. I think I had the evil dreams because the guys treated me so terribly that long year ago. That made me think because it didn’t feel like a year already, that was too long. It felt like a couple weeks, a month at the most.
Lying in my hospital bed, again, I wondered if I had missed my second Christmas. It’s not truly traumatic or unusual for me to miss a Christmas because of touring or promotions, but I always made up for it by sending my brother and sisters gifts from where ever I was at the time. That way they would have a piece of me around Christmas time. Maybe I would still have a chance to make it up to them, because I am still alive. Not well exactly, but somewhat alive. Still, I hoped they would have Christmas without me, because there was no sense in missing it because of a foolish mistake on my part.
Anyway, with the rest of the dreams, I wasn’t really sure. Trashing the hotel could’ve happened, but not to the extent that I described. Since I remember my bitten hand and the cool feel of the hotel lamp against my swollen skin, I probably did break that lamp. The rest of the stuff was probably just something I dreamt up when I was high. I’m usually not that emotional, that’s how I get myself into so much trouble.
If I really wanted to, I could have asked somebody. But I’m not into making myself look like a fool. They probably wouldn’t understand half of what I’m saying, and the other half they would think me crazy. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who truly understands me. When I get in trouble, I keep thinking this way and I gradually get more depressed each day. Most of the time I feel that there is no where to turn.
I stopped thinking about the dreams for a while and concentrated on where I was. Obviously it was a hospital; I could just smell one out by now. But where were the nurses to check up on me? Where were the doctors to tell me how ill I was? It was all really confusing. On top of that, it was bad enough that my ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, my throat felt bloated and the rest of my body parts were either itchy, swollen, or completely numb.
After a moment of deliberation, I came to the conclusion that I was sick, very, very sick. I remembered that I was supposed to be dead, dying in that abandoned broken-down shack. But I was still alive. Very sick is a better condition than very dead.
I started to wonder about things again. Like how did I get here? Who called the ambulance? Certainly not one of the druggies; in fact it probably never even crossed their minds to get me some help. Somehow I can’t blame them; meddling into my business as of then would have been a grave mistake. Had they hit the press, they probably would never be able to use another joint again.
But, since they had no idea I was a Backstreet Boy, there were other issues probably keeping them from helping me. My background could have been worse, maybe I had trouble with dealers, or maybe someone was after me. You never really know how they think. Then again, most people think the same way. If you see a bum on the street or a druggie passed out somewhere do you bring them to a homeless shelter or a hospital? I didn’t think so.
Suddenly my arms became restless and insanely itchy, but I could do nothing to console my insatiable urge to itch. Nothing moved; my arms were still, as were my legs, my mouth was frozen and my eyelids were jammed perpetually closed. The incessant itchy feeling was getting to my brain so bad that I could no longer ignore it with dreams and fantasies. Besides the stupid itch, I would not let myself become a vegetable.
In forcing my brain to send signals to my mouth, I was able to get my mouth open just a notch; according to my nerves. Then I struggled to remember how to talk, or even to scream. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The problem was that I couldn’t really hear, or feel things around me, so at first I wasn’t sure that I said anything at all. To make certain, I repeated the process and felt the area around me spring into action.
For a moment afterwards, I thought I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder, and heard someone say something like, “brainwaves!” But I’d been in a hazy dream for so long that I had trouble differentiating. Then I was certain I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder and then touching my fingertips… holding my hand.
One by one the parts of my body slowly came back to me. The itchy feeling and numbness was starting to disappear and soon I would try to open my eyes to see who saved me. I wiggled my fingers that were being grasped so delicately by my savior. Without opening my eyes, I knew who it was.
My left hand was having some trouble responding and I just couldn’t get it to move. After a little while I gave up on it and opened my eyelids instead. My eyes blurred and refocused, trying to adjust to the effervescence of the light. It felt odd to see for some reason, like it wasn’t right somehow. I didn’t see much at first; some white walls, a white ceiling and some blurred objects, but that was about all.
Sure I didn’t see much at first, but I did hear the loveliest voice I hadn’t heard in a long time. It was so nice it caused my eyes to tear up all over again from emotion. All that the voice said was my name, once, but that was enough.
Eventually I did get my eyes to focus. I saw a hand go to the top of my head and felt it stroke my bald head. The hospital had gotten permission to start the God-awful chemotherapy all over again and I had lost the stubble of hair that I managed to recuperate.
The person in front of me started to cry and I wanted to comfort her but my voice was numb. I was crying too. After a while of the same ritual, I wanted out. I didn’t want her to touch me anymore, I didn’t want her to see me as I was; hideous, drug-abusing and everything opposite of what she thought I’d be.
Then she spoke again, whispering it in my ear so that only I could hear, “I got your call and I came as soon as I could…” She paused when her voice broke and used the tissue she was carrying to dab some stray tears gently off of my face.
“Mom,” I told her, as it was the best I could do. It only made her cry harder and longer though, the cracked sound of my voice. She rested her head on my chest and felt her tears of mourning through my quilt. I remembered then that I had never seen her cry, even on the darkest of days or when we were poor. Because of how terribly I felt, I rested my right hand on her head and stroked her hair as best I could. My left hand was still not really responding, but I could lift my forearm lest the fact that my hand hung limply from it.
We stayed in that position for a long time; my mother glad that I was breathing and making her head lighter so that she could feel my chest going up and down and me, I was glad she was even there. For a split second I let my eye wander to the doorway (I found that it was not appropriate to let one’s eyes wander at a time like this, but I did it any way) and I spotted someone peering in through the doorway.
I smiled, as I knew who it was, and I intended to let them in no matter my condition for the moment. “Come on in,” I told him, “ I can’t bite.” It was supposed to be a lame attempt at joke, but it didn’t really work. No one laughed, but the figure in the doorway did come closer until he was standing at my left side. He took my hand gently, and that was how I knew there must have been something wrong with it. Had he not treated it like a broken feather, I would have thought that my problems with it were just in my head. But no, there was something very wrong with it.
My mother lifted her head and tried some dignity and strength in his presence. She treated him as if he were a brother of mine, and would not let a moment slip where he might see her cry again. I looked backed at him and I saw that he had my left hand cupped between both of his and he was praying into it. Even thought I couldn’t feel what he was doing, or hear what he was saying, I knew that he was using the same prayer as did his mother when she thought that he was dying so long ago. For a moment I felt honored, but then I remembered the reason of the prayer. He was giving up on me.
I looked back at my mother with what must have been frightened eyes. Her hand returned to my head and she gently, but firmly, told him that he was scaring me. The entire situation became very uncomfortable, but there was really nothing that I could do about it presently. Eventually a doctor came in (I never thought I’d be glad to see one of those) and told my mother that he needed to speak with her.
From the very beginning, the moment I woke up, I felt that there was something missing. I turned to Brian and I saw opportunity. He could get me what I needed. Now all I had to do was break it to him subtly.
“Brian,” I croaked, “I need you to get something for me.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“You don’t understand. It’s very important but… it’s kind of bad.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“And don’t let mom find out. I don’t want to upset her, she’s been through enough.”
“I’ll try, but what is it.”
“I need you to go to the place where mom found me, walk three or four blocks up the street, I can’t remember which, and wait on the first bench you see for about 20 minutes. A young guy will come along and pay a lot of attention to the bench. I want you to get him $120, tell him it’s for Nick, and he should give you what I need.”
Chapter 50
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