One Day At A Time




******************

He awoke, tangled in the covers, and slowly got up. he looked out the window. Pitch black. He then looked at the clock 3:45 a.m.

"Damn." He muttered, he was wide awake.

He looked down at his trembling hands, he knew of one way to make this all stop, but, no, that's not even a thought he cared to really entertain.

He didn't really know how that thought had even popped into his head, but once it was there, it seemed to stick.

He took four more Motrin followed by a glass of water, and realized then, that he really had no idea when he had eaten last. It didn't really bother him, he wasn't hungry.

But, he didn't want the Motrin swishing around in there on an empty stomach, not that they were really helping anyway, but he felt he needed to do something.

He sat at the window for a while, looking out at the world, a melancholy feeling had sunk in, and just wouldn't leave. All the hopes he had for making a "clean" start were gone.

It struck him that his worst fears were realized. No one trusted him. Abby didn't even believe him. He suddenly got up and started pacing the room. "I'm not going to take this." He muttered to himself.

"I don't need to take this. I did everything they told me to do, shit, it was prescribed, yeah, the Fentanyl was a little over the line, okay, a lot over the line, but if any one of them had gotten punted across the room, could they say they wouldn't do the same? No, of course they wouldn't, Mark and Kerry are way too ethical for that. No, they wouldn't do that." He muttered, "sanctimonious bullshit if you ask me."

Would his life be different now if he had never taken that patient, oh yes, it would have. For one thing, he would never have been caught. If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would never had been forced to such an extreme measure. It was one time. Whether they believed him or not, it was just that one time. One time that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He had to tell Mark. He knew what it was. The Naltrexone was making him sick. He just couldn't take it any more. If they terminated the agreement, fine by him, but he was not putting himself through another day of this hell for them. What did they ever do for him? He thought long and hard about this last one. They had taught him everything he knew about medicine, that's what they had done. He couldn't throw that in their faces, for they had been a good group of teachers.

He stopped pacing and sat back down in the chair, and lay his head back. God, he was so tired, but sleep wouldn't come. He again, entertained the thought of making all of this go away. He looked out briefly onto the distance, and saw the light go on in his Gamma's kitchen. She was up and about. It was 4:30 a.m. in the morning. He could vaguely see her form in the window, looking out toward the guesthouse. He was suddenly very glad he had not turned on the light. She'd worry. His Gamma, that was what he'd focus on. She would be devastated.

He lay his head back again. His headache, which had gotten slightly better, was now back in fine form, pounding away.

He closed his eyes, and prayed for sleep.

**********************

Millicent looked out the window and sighed. She didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to march right down to that hospital and tell those people just exactly where they could shove it, pull clinic funding and do whatever other damage she could. The other part of her said that she needed to let John handle this. After all, he was not like the rest of the Carter clan. He made his own decisions, didn't go by the "Carter" rules.

He'd never forgive her for it. She wouldn't risk alienating him, especially when it seemed everyone else was. She drew water into the teakettle and waited for it to boil. She sighed and looked out toward the guesthouse once again, "John, I don't know what to do for you." She quitely said, and absently wiped at a tear that slid down her cheek.

***********************

John's breathing was deep and rhythmic, sleep had finally taken over. He found himself walking along Rush street. He had no idea how he had gotten there, he was barefoot and disheveled. He wandered around, looking at the tourists, he seemed to be floating rather than walking. He saw Peter Benton walking toward him, and then past him, ignoring him completely, as though he had never even existed. The words echoed in his head, "Carter, I never even gave you a second thought." Well, I guess he hadn't. Fine then, he walk/floated on until he reached an outdoor cafe, where he decided to stop for coffee. It was early yet, and there were plenty of empty tables.

He sat and waited for the server to come. She made her way toward him, finally, and he ordered a coffee. He wasn't hungry, although, he knew he should probably eat. His clothes were starting to hang on him as though they belonged to someone else. Someone about 20 pounds heavier than he was.

His coffee came, and he informed the waitress that he'd be taking it outside. There was only one other couple at the tables outside, so he pulled a chair back, and sat down by himself.

Within the hour, and three cups of coffee later, the tables were full. The waitress shot him a glance every so often, he was taking up valuable space apparently. Tough, he had just as much right to be here as anyone else.

The traffic on Rush street had started to crawl as the morning commuters made their way to work. The sidewalks were full with tourists and resident's making their way to the El. In his dream, he had no place to go.

He didn't even see the man with the gun, until it was too late. He had seen the man walk slowly past a number of times, but paid him no mind. Many tourists got lost, and he looked lost. He heard a woman scream, and saw the flash as the bullets left the gun. The man was systematically walking up and down the aisles of the cafe, shooting at random. He hid under the table, a cold sweat had taken over, and he prayed, he prayed that God would let him see just one more day, just one more. He spied the man's shoes at the table next to him, as he took out the couple John had been seated next to for the past hour. He heard a scream, then a pop, pop, pop, and that was it.

The crying and screaming seemed as if it would never end. He clasped his hands together and started his mantra, "Just one more day, Lord, just one more day Lord..." The shooter was beside his table. John looked up, and made eye contact with him. He knew then that it was all over. He was going to die here, today, now, in this cafe. The man pointed the gun at John, and pulled the trigger. To John, it seemed as if it was all in slow motion, but dreams are often that way, although, this did not feel like a dream. He could smell and taste the coffee. He could hear the sounds of the traffic. He could see the blood everywhere and hear the sirens. He looked into the barrell of the gun. Click...click...click...

The man muttered something unintelligible, and jumped over tables to run back out of the cafe. John hadn't realized he was holding his breath.

He woke with a start, breathing hard, he couldn't catch his breath. He was bathed in a cold sweat.

"Oh God..." He muttered, trying to calm himself. His heart was racing and he couldn't catch his breath. He didn't remember ever having had such a disturbing nightmare. He stood up, rubbing at his head. He was dizzy again. He sat down hard and decided he needed a shower. Maybe a hot shower and a cup of tea and he'd be able to go back to sleep.

He walked toward the bathroom, taking a clean set of clothes, and started the shower. He stared at his haggard reflection in the mirror, "Damn, you look awful man." He told himself. He decided to shave. His Gamma never liked him with facial hair. Sometimes, when he was younger, he grew it just to get a rise out of her. He lathered his face and attempted to shave. The shaking in his hands had subsided a bit, so he felt sure he wouldn't cut his own throat. He finished, and looked back at his reflection, "a little better." He told himself.

The shower was good and hot and he stripped down, what little there was to take off, he had slept only in his boxers, and stepped into the hot spray. He leaned against the wall, letting the water wash over him, and taking with it, the tenseness in his muscles.

He drew a line with his finger over the scars on his abdomen, tracing them to their end. "Battle wounds." Luka had told him, "In my country they are something to be proud of, not hidden. It is the sign of a survivor."

"Well, this survivor is a little worse for wear." He mumbled to himself. He finished washing and grabbed the one clean towel he had left. He dried himself off, taking care not to look at how angry and red the scarlines were after the hot shower. They may be a source of pride in Croatia, but to John Carter, they were a constant remainder of his failures. He threw on his sweats, and crawled back into his bed, cocooning himself in the covers.

*******************

"Have you spoken to him yet?" Kerry asked.

"Kerry, it's only 6:00 in the morning, can you let me get settled in first." Mark replied irritated, "I told you I would take care of this, and I will take care of this."

Kerry's mouth formed a grim line of frustration. She knew darned good and well that she was a control freak and didn't much care to lose that control. Oh sure, she'd bitch about the responsibility every so often, but that was only for show. She didn't want people to start taking her for granted. She knew she had this job well in hand.

"When?" She asked.

"Kerry, it's his day off, I'm going to let him sleep in. Besides, he hasn't answered my phone calls. I think I may just go to his house, speak to him in person. You know, like the friend I claimed to be." Mark uttered the last words under his breath, hoping Kerry would catch the gist of what he was saying, what they all had said that day, and so far, had not really done. Just so many empty words. He, for one, would not let Carter down. Hell, it was partially his fault this had ended up this way. If he would have stayed until the end of his shift, he would have supervised more closely, or so he kept telling himself. Carter had not needed much supervision, he had been Peter Benton's student, and for the most part Benton's student's, by this point, really didn't need much supervising. Say what you want about Peter Benton, but he was a great teacher.

Mark went to the lounge to get some coffee, and to sit a while and think. He needed to chose his words carefully, not go off half-cocked, pushing Carter further away from the help he so desperately needed, but wouldn't, couldn't ask for. They had all let him down, how on earth could he get him to trust again? He sat alone with his thoughts, praying Kerry, for once, would leave him alone. Carter...the name didn't leave his mind since the u/a came back with no detectible trace of the Nalrexone. "Did you take yourself off of it?" Mark asked to no one there, "Or, are you using something we aren't able to test for?" He thought the former more than the latter, but didn't rule out either option. Mark sighed heavily, the enormity of this task was wearing him out. He could not even imagine what it was doing to Carter.

******************

John was awakened by the whistling of the teakettle. He had forgotten to take it off of the stove. He untangled himself from his sheets, and succeeded in practically falling out of bed. There was little water left in the teapot. It must have been whistling it's head off for quite sometime.

There was enough water left for one cup of tea. He hung the teabag in the cup, and poured the rest of the steaming water over it. He sat down and tried to catch up on his reading. He picked up "The New England Journal of Medicine" and found that he could no longer focus. He tried to focus on the words, but they all blurred together. He tossed the magazine aside in frustration, and turned on a mind-numbing news show, as the sun rose further in the sky. The newscaster droned on about international affairs, Chicago news, then the celebrity stuff, who married who, who divorced who, who really gives a damn.

He sat this way for several hours, holding the cup, but never drinking anything. He held the cup to steady his hand, which had been working effectively, until he noticed the tea, now cold, sloshing over the side of the cup. He set the cup down, and settled further into the chair. It had only been two days since he had stopped taking the Naltrexone, it could be a few days longer before he saw any of it's effects wear off. Patience. He had to have patience. But, this sucked.

*******************

"Kerry, I'm going to lunch." Mark announced.

"Any patient's I need to be brought up to speed on?" Kerry asked.

"No, all discharged. I'll be back in an hour or so." Mark turned and walked away, leaving no room for discussion, nor any chance for Kerry to drill him with questions.

Mark got in his van, his plan firmly set in his head, and headed out toward the Carter estate.



Part 5
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