Tommy’s Song
Chapter One
Inspirational stories preach about how relieved people felt when they didn’t die. They never mentioned the shame and guilt. Tommy thought the swirl of lights and drop into darkness meant the end. But waking up in the hospital, his body wracked with pain like it was trying to tear itself apart, and his mind screaming in panic, brought a new meaning to pain. At least the first few days he was barely conscious.
The first week was nothing but doctors and occasionally his manager Katie. The second week he slept, barely ate, and spoke with only a handful of nurses and doctors. The third week he was moved to an upscale facility. But really it wasn’t much better. Cameras, locked rooms, endless people in and out of his space.
His skin crawled. He threw up for days. He burned with fever, shivered from the cold, begged for aspirin for a headache, anything for relief. “I can bring you some Tylenol,” a nurse offered cheerfully.
He put a pillow over his head hoping to smother himself and end the pain. Then he lost the privilege of having pillows and blankets. Four weeks and the nausea wouldn’t let up. He sat in the therapist’s office glaring at the ugly pattern weave in the carpet.
“How do you feel?” It was a question asked a dozen times a day. No one really cared.
“Dead,” Tommy answered. “Inside.” He had a dark, black patch in the center right area of his brain. He could feel it. Like some strange blight or hole. No one listened. “Can I see my friends?”
Did he still have some? He couldn’t recall. How had he ended up here? It had been weeks. Four, or five now? Wouldn’t someone have come?
“Do you want to see them?”
“Do they want to see me?” Tommy threw back, letting his head fall against the back of the chair. Exhaustion made him weak, but he felt like all he did was sleep, or at least lie in bed wishing he was sleeping.
“When you arrived, you demanded no visitors.”
“Hasn’t kept any of you assholes out,” Tommy grumbled. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
The therapist stared at him. Tommy could feel the gaze even if he didn’t look up. “I’m not even certain you know where you are, Mr. Foster.”
“A hospital?” It didn’t look like a hospital. More like the place Dane had been before. He hadn’t encountered any other patients, but he’d also avoided going to any group activities.
“We are a detox center, Mr. Foster. From here, you’ll transfer to an inpatient facility for further care.”
Detox? Was that why he felt like shit and they wouldn’t give him anything? He thought about that for a while. The long list of stuff he had to detox from. Was that why he had been so sick? “I’m detoxing? It’s been weeks.”
“Hard core alcohol, cocaine, and benzodiazepine abuse to be exact. The amount of Ativan in your blood should have killed you.”
“Not having that one makes me twitchy,” Tommy said. In fact, he was now, his skin feeling like it was crawling. Or like he needed to come out of his skin to find relief. Something in his gut trembled nonstop, starting at the base of his spine and projecting outward. “It’s a prescription though. For anxiety.”
“Not anymore.”
“I need it.” No wonder he felt brain dead and like his spine was plugged into an electrical outlet all at once.
“You don’t.”
Tommy lifted his head to glare at the therapist, not recognizing the man at all. “Check me out of here. I don’t consent. I want to leave.” He had stashes at home, prescriptions from all over the country. Never traveled without it. If he could take a pill he’d feel better.
The therapist didn’t respond, but the door opened and the orderlies appeared at Tommy’s side, dragging him out of the chair. He tried to protest, but was a limp doll from lack of energy and everything hurting. “Can I see someone else?” Tommy begged. “My family? My friends? Another doctor maybe?”
They returned him to his room, and left him in silence.
More days passed. He cried. The vomiting stopped, though the nausea didn’t. He barely ate, and went to meetings with the doctor or a therapist when he had to.
The only gauge of time Tommy had was the light through the window. It was coated in a crinkle covering, keeping him from seeing the outside world, but he could see the sun rise and set. He laid in the small bed most days doing just that.
He cursed everyone. His friends and family. All of them abandoned him when he’d done everything for them. The money he’d stashed away for his folks, the time he’d spent making Ru’s life easier and keeping the media away, saving Dane from his eating disorder, all of it, Tommy had been responsible for. Where would they be without him?
Late one afternoon the door opened again. Not mealtime. But he smelled food. Pizza? They did not give him pizza here. He got soup. And if he didn’t throw that up, maybe a banana and some mashed potatoes. He flicked his gaze toward the door to find Katie there, pizza box from Dimitri’s in her hands.
“Go away,” he told her.
