Benjamin Andrew Marcus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ithrewitaway) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2015-07-19 02:30 am
ithrewitaway) wrote in muserevival2015-07-19 02:30 am
Entry tags:
096.2 || Quotes
"Life is very interesting... in the end, some of your greatest pains, become your greatest strengths." - Drew Barrymore
Despite promising Bailey that he was going to get clean, Ben had somewhat taken the long way around. Once he’d left the hospital, Bailey’s words had resounded with him… that he had to get clean for himself. It couldn’t just be for Bailey or for Ava, because that wasn’t good enough. It had to be Ben’s decision and because he was ready and wanted to do it. So he’d walked down from Bailey’s room to the hospital’s addiction center, and stood outside for a long time. He was pretty oblivious to the fact that he was pretty obviously a mess until one of the nurses going into the center stopped outside to ask him if he was okay. “Yeah, I’m good,” Ben had assured her, a little too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. The nurse didn’t give him a look or anything, but Ben could tell that she thought he should come in. He couldn’t really blame her for thinking that, either. He did look like hell. There was no question about that.
He’d sat down on one of the chairs outside and waited for hours, trying to talk himself into going inside as the cravings got stronger and stronger. It was the hardest thing for him to describe. It was the deepest hunger you could imagine – the most painful sense that you were gasping for air but couldn’t quite breathe. It was something like being dehydrated beyond belief and having water right in front of you that you couldn’t drink. And most of all, it was just pain. Plain and simple, fucking pain. Different kinds of pain depending on how long he’d waited and how strong the last hit was… an empty hollow ache in the hours after a strong hit ended, or cruel excruciating pain that left him shaking and crying for help when the hit was weak or the hours were long in between.
At the end of the day, Ben didn’t check in that day. Or the next day, either. Every morning, he woke up telling himself this was the day, and every night, he passed out, loaded down with drugs and booze. It was the same vicious cycle he’d been living for years now, and the truth was that he hated it. He looked back at his life and he couldn’t even remember the first hit he’d taken of anything stronger than weed. He knew Cole had been there, whatever it was. Cole had been there for most of the times… lines of coke off bathroom counters… Hits of smack and the near immediate rush that, no matter how much he shot these days, just couldn’t be matched. It was never good enough to match that first hit. So you kept chasing it… Elusive and fleeting… and it never came. The frustration was overwhelming. You’d try anything. Dealers promised you “This shit’s like nothing you’ve ever had before,” and every time it was a fucking lie. It was the same shit. Different dosages, cut with different shit, but it was all the same shit in the grand scheme of things. It fucked him up, but it never felt like the first time.
And when it would wear away, there he’d be again, his mind a mess of memories rushing to the forefront… memories that he’d never fucking erase. They’d go away for a while, Ben too damn fucked up to remember his own name, much less seeing his best friend and brother in arms die, or the first time he’d made love to Ava, or the way that Bailey had cried and told him to promise to be okay when he’d left Texas to join the army. He could let the drugs drown it out for a while, but when they faded away, the memories came back… louder and more painful than before. And maybe it was a strange thing to hold onto, but for Ben it was all he had left in him.
Memories – some of them sweet and precious to him, others painful and heartwrenching and probably more easily forgotten than relived. But they were his fucking memories, and when it came to Brendan, they were all he had left of him. There was nothing left of him but memories, and if Ben hadn’t been able to keep him alive, then how could he be too chicken shit to at least let his fucking memories live on? He’d heard people talk before about a moment of clarity, and he wasn’t sure that he could really call it that. But what he could say was that there was a sudden realization for him one night in the darkness of the room where he was half-awake, half-nodding off, that if he died, his memories of Brendan died with him. And the people he’d loved wouldn’t remember him the way he wanted to be remembered. He wouldn’t be Ben who taught Bailey to play catch, or Ben who Ava loved and planned a life with, or Ben who was a fiercely protective big brother to Mitch. No, he wouldn’t be that guy if he died this way. He’d be Ben, who OD’d on heroin in a shitty hotel room with a needle in his arm – Ben who had left his wife to face her own trauma alone; Ben who’d shown up in Bailey’s hospital room looking like hell; Ben who had been in a hotel room getting fucked up instead of standing by Cole who was trying to get clean and struggling like hell.
And for the first time since Bailey had bitched him out at the hospital, that truly wasn’t enough. Dying like this, living like this? It wasn’t fucking enough. His brother was alive. Cole was alive, but barely. Ava, god love her, was still his wife by law, which meant there had to be something that had kept her from filing the divorce papers. Bailey was still alive, but in pain, and needed love and support from people who genuinely cared. And Ben was killing himself one hit at a time, and that just wasn’t going to fucking cut it. He wasn’t going to die so people could talk in hushed tones about what a fuck up he was – so Ava could cry at his funeral, but sort of be relieved, too; so everyone who’d said he was being a piece of shit excuse for a human being could be proven right.
No. Fuck that. He wasn’t going to die. Not today. He managed to fish his cell phone out of his pocket, his eyes bleary as he looked at the screen. 7% battery. No service He’d forgotten to pay the bill again… Or more like had just chosen not to. But the fucking thing worked to call 911 if nothing else, and that was what he was damn well going to do.
The nearly robotic voice on the other end of the line answered, “911, what’s your emergency?”
It took Ben a second before he finally replied, his voice breaking with an onslaught of tears, “I’m fucked up on heroin… I don’t want to die.”
Ben Marcus||Original Character
Despite promising Bailey that he was going to get clean, Ben had somewhat taken the long way around. Once he’d left the hospital, Bailey’s words had resounded with him… that he had to get clean for himself. It couldn’t just be for Bailey or for Ava, because that wasn’t good enough. It had to be Ben’s decision and because he was ready and wanted to do it. So he’d walked down from Bailey’s room to the hospital’s addiction center, and stood outside for a long time. He was pretty oblivious to the fact that he was pretty obviously a mess until one of the nurses going into the center stopped outside to ask him if he was okay. “Yeah, I’m good,” Ben had assured her, a little too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. The nurse didn’t give him a look or anything, but Ben could tell that she thought he should come in. He couldn’t really blame her for thinking that, either. He did look like hell. There was no question about that.
He’d sat down on one of the chairs outside and waited for hours, trying to talk himself into going inside as the cravings got stronger and stronger. It was the hardest thing for him to describe. It was the deepest hunger you could imagine – the most painful sense that you were gasping for air but couldn’t quite breathe. It was something like being dehydrated beyond belief and having water right in front of you that you couldn’t drink. And most of all, it was just pain. Plain and simple, fucking pain. Different kinds of pain depending on how long he’d waited and how strong the last hit was… an empty hollow ache in the hours after a strong hit ended, or cruel excruciating pain that left him shaking and crying for help when the hit was weak or the hours were long in between.
At the end of the day, Ben didn’t check in that day. Or the next day, either. Every morning, he woke up telling himself this was the day, and every night, he passed out, loaded down with drugs and booze. It was the same vicious cycle he’d been living for years now, and the truth was that he hated it. He looked back at his life and he couldn’t even remember the first hit he’d taken of anything stronger than weed. He knew Cole had been there, whatever it was. Cole had been there for most of the times… lines of coke off bathroom counters… Hits of smack and the near immediate rush that, no matter how much he shot these days, just couldn’t be matched. It was never good enough to match that first hit. So you kept chasing it… Elusive and fleeting… and it never came. The frustration was overwhelming. You’d try anything. Dealers promised you “This shit’s like nothing you’ve ever had before,” and every time it was a fucking lie. It was the same shit. Different dosages, cut with different shit, but it was all the same shit in the grand scheme of things. It fucked him up, but it never felt like the first time.
And when it would wear away, there he’d be again, his mind a mess of memories rushing to the forefront… memories that he’d never fucking erase. They’d go away for a while, Ben too damn fucked up to remember his own name, much less seeing his best friend and brother in arms die, or the first time he’d made love to Ava, or the way that Bailey had cried and told him to promise to be okay when he’d left Texas to join the army. He could let the drugs drown it out for a while, but when they faded away, the memories came back… louder and more painful than before. And maybe it was a strange thing to hold onto, but for Ben it was all he had left in him.
Memories – some of them sweet and precious to him, others painful and heartwrenching and probably more easily forgotten than relived. But they were his fucking memories, and when it came to Brendan, they were all he had left of him. There was nothing left of him but memories, and if Ben hadn’t been able to keep him alive, then how could he be too chicken shit to at least let his fucking memories live on? He’d heard people talk before about a moment of clarity, and he wasn’t sure that he could really call it that. But what he could say was that there was a sudden realization for him one night in the darkness of the room where he was half-awake, half-nodding off, that if he died, his memories of Brendan died with him. And the people he’d loved wouldn’t remember him the way he wanted to be remembered. He wouldn’t be Ben who taught Bailey to play catch, or Ben who Ava loved and planned a life with, or Ben who was a fiercely protective big brother to Mitch. No, he wouldn’t be that guy if he died this way. He’d be Ben, who OD’d on heroin in a shitty hotel room with a needle in his arm – Ben who had left his wife to face her own trauma alone; Ben who’d shown up in Bailey’s hospital room looking like hell; Ben who had been in a hotel room getting fucked up instead of standing by Cole who was trying to get clean and struggling like hell.
And for the first time since Bailey had bitched him out at the hospital, that truly wasn’t enough. Dying like this, living like this? It wasn’t fucking enough. His brother was alive. Cole was alive, but barely. Ava, god love her, was still his wife by law, which meant there had to be something that had kept her from filing the divorce papers. Bailey was still alive, but in pain, and needed love and support from people who genuinely cared. And Ben was killing himself one hit at a time, and that just wasn’t going to fucking cut it. He wasn’t going to die so people could talk in hushed tones about what a fuck up he was – so Ava could cry at his funeral, but sort of be relieved, too; so everyone who’d said he was being a piece of shit excuse for a human being could be proven right.
No. Fuck that. He wasn’t going to die. Not today. He managed to fish his cell phone out of his pocket, his eyes bleary as he looked at the screen. 7% battery. No service He’d forgotten to pay the bill again… Or more like had just chosen not to. But the fucking thing worked to call 911 if nothing else, and that was what he was damn well going to do.
The nearly robotic voice on the other end of the line answered, “911, what’s your emergency?”
It took Ben a second before he finally replied, his voice breaking with an onslaught of tears, “I’m fucked up on heroin… I don’t want to die.”
Ben Marcus||Original Character