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Chapter 18


Life sucks, and then you die.

I don't give a damn what anyone says. That's a fact of life. Period. It's blunt, and it's harsh. People hate hearing it. People hate a lot of what I have to say. But it's honest. It's reality. Reality ain't ever been made of sunshine and roses, no matter what shit people try to spread around, whether it be through religion or another way.

In therapy, I'm told to try and concentrate upon the positives. What positives? The fact that I'm an addict and need the help? The fact that I hurt my own mother, the woman who was my rock? Or let's not forget the fact that I'm clinically depressed and am supposed to be medicated. Yeah, positives. I was told to do an assignment on the positives that day. I blew it off, and it ended up not mattering in the fucked scheme of things.

But I think I'll try it now. Positives...

I'm alive.

I'm not alone.

I have been sober since Reaper's Sabbath, so far… (and, all things considered, that's a damn miracle.)

I'm alive.

I'm alive.

I'm alive.

Guess there are some positives these days.



Friday, April 13, 2012
9:00 p.m.


AJ glanced out the window as he completed his painting, simply contemplating the day's events. It had been, overall, uneventful, in the grand scheme of the world, he figured, or even in his own life. Nothing life-altering for him that day. Simply therapy, where he’d revealed more than he had wanted to.

God, he had craved a drink worse than ever right then...


"Alexander."

AJ tilted his shades down so the therapist could get a really good look at the cold, hard, steely gaze he was directing at him. No one called him Alexander these days. Even his mother had always called him Alex. Though now, she barely spoke to him at all. His fault, of course. He never blamed anyone else for what was his fault, and yes, that included the hell he considered rehab to be. He never figured rehab therapy sessions would be about twenty times worse, though.

“AJ.”

“Alright, AJ…” His therapist was a meek-looking man, mousy eyes peeking through a set of thick lenses belonging to glasses with a thick, red frame. He sniffled a lot, and couldn’t quite keep his slacks and dress shirt neat, like they should be. AJ figured the man probably had a lot of issues of his own. It seemed to be why most people went into any career involving psychology. “We’ll leave the positives as a special assignment for you; you can have it ready for our next private session.”

Private sessions. Then group sessions. Then group dinners. All he wanted was time to himself. Of course, that was a luxury denied to him these days. The therapist, Dr. Michola, eyed him with precisioned caution. And all he wanted was to be out, honest to God, that was all, and it was all he could think about as well. Even the jail cell the rehab center considered to be a proper room had been upgraded to an improvement.

"Come on, Alex, talk to me." And now the bastard was doing that because AJ just didn't want to answer the man's questions. What was the point? No one could fix him. He was depressed; he knew that. He would have to take a new drug and fight his addictions to others.

He was fucked up. That said it all, in his eyes. What was the point of having a therapist tell him again?

"You told me when we first met that no one understood. Well, how will anyone understand you, if you won’t tell me how you see things? Why don't you try to make me understand?"

Dr. Michola was met with silence once again. AJ was left with his thoughts as the words hung within the air before him. He knew he wouldn't be allowed to leave, or he'd end up with a "special" session, unless he started talking. He knew this man would never actually get it, but he guessed he should at least throw the starving dog a bone.

"Distanced..."

The head of the other man snapped up almost immediately. It reminded him of an old jack-in-the-box he’d had when he was five; it popped up, and the head broke off. A hint of a smirk appeared at the image of Dr. Michola's head flying off. Wishful thinking; he wanted to happen. The smirk grew as he watched him hurriedly scribble some notes down. An actual response had almost put the man into shock. It amazed AJ, sometimes, how malleable people could be.

Finally, the therapist met AJ's shaded gaze once more. "How so?"

AJ gave a slight shrug. He just had to fill the time until he was able to escape. "I always had people who cared about me. Family, friends, all that shit."

"Go on..."

"But when they included me, when I knew I was involved in what they were doing, or fuck, their lives... I still felt separated."

"Yet you know you were part of it."

He knew the man wouldn't grasp what he was trying to say. "Yeah, well, damn... it was like watching a movie. I could see it happening, feel like I was in the story. In the end, though, I was still outside of it. No matter how involved in the story I was. Just like a movie, and I was just watching it."



He was supposed to have gone to group therapy earlier that evening. He’d decided to blow it off, said he wasn't feeling well. Which wasn't too far from the truth. AJ wasn't sick or anything; he just had a dark feeling nestled within the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't right. Not that it ever was, but this was different. Worse. Darker. It was the sort of feeling a child would get just before a thunderstorm started – something they felt was bad was coming, and no one could stop it.

AJ decided to leave his room and walk along the halls, into the lounge-styled room of the residence, where many of the other addicts at the facility were gathered around the television. "A new strain of virus has consumed the nation at an alarming rate. The CDC has been investigating the source of this unknown illness. Its early symptoms resemble a virulent version of the flu..."

He turned away from the TV and looked back at the others, whom he’d just now noticed were sitting in a semicircle, their hands linked together. One of them glanced up at AJ, as others coughed violently. "We're going to pray for the poor souls infected. You can join us."

"I think it's a sign..."

"Half the country has it."

"Lord... hear our prayer..."

AJ walked away without an answer to any of them. He was fed up with all of it. And the others… A prayer circle? They thought that was the answer?

He sat down on his bed, resting his head in his hands. There were no sounds to comfort him, no one there to tell him that his inner feelings were wrong this time.

Did they really think God would save them?

He couldn't remember the last time he’d actually believed in God. God was like Santa Claus, someone in whom only little kids or, in the case of religion, those who’d had privileged lives could ever truly believe. The common link between kids and the faithful? They hadn't had reality splash a cold dose of cruelty in their faces yet. It seemed so obvious to him that there was no God, that religion had been created as a way of controlling others, but then again, many things seemed obvious to AJ and not to others.

And people thought there was something wrong with him?

He stood and walked slowly towards the corner of the room, where the easel waited before him. A glance to the right showed a worn, wooden box that sat upon his nightstand and was open to reveal brushes and a variety of paints. His gaze shifted back to his painting once more. His pictures were always darker than most people liked, and they were typically cynical in their imagery, but this one depicted an image even AJ found a bit disturbing. An image he couldn't stomach if he looked at it too long.

Little did he know just how accurate that image would soon become.

***