Detox

Part Two

They left the Tower about ten minutes later, before either of them could change their minds. Dick had his civilian car, the one he’d gotten when he turned sixteen, parked inside a secure warehouse across the river. It was a Subaru because Alfred had read they had the highest safety rating and Bruce wasn’t in the mood to argue that particular evening. It was fine; in fact, it was pretty nice.

Dick had called the Manor and said he’d be tied up for a week or two on Titan business and not to worry. Bruce, not happy, had finally agreed when Dick reminded him that he was off all next week for Spring break. Roy said Ollie wouldn’t care and probably not notice where he was or that he was missing, so that concern was out of the mix. The coast, as it were, was clear.

It took almost three hours, but they rolled up to the dark cabin about two in the morning and by the time they were inside, Roy was starting to act hyper—restless, ready to go running or something.

It was the first sign of withdrawal.

“How come you started using?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Roy—how come?”

He stopped in his too fast looking around the cabin, picking up everything he found, looking at it for a millisecond and then going on to whatever caught his eye next. He was unable to stand still, to sit, and lying down was out of the question. “It’s all bullshit, Boy Wonder—‘teen hero feels ignored by mentor and turns to drugs to fill the void’. Pretty damn cliché, right?”

“You’re saying Ollie didn’t notice anything?”

“Of course Ollie didn’t notice anything, he was too busy screwing Dinah to give a rat’s ass what happened to me.” He dropped a hand made Indian platter—probably antique and the kind of thing Ralph Lauren would cream over before it shattered into a thousand pieces. “Jesus, sorry.”

“’Doesn’t matter.” Dick pointed Roy into the master bedroom simply because it was on the main floor instead of up in the loft. “Try to sleep; this might be easier if you sleep through part of it.”

Roy barely smiled. “You really don’t have a clue, do you, Dick?” He let himself be led.

The first night went through the beginning of the third day. Along with the hyper behavior there was the insomnia coupled with the need for a fix. Roy had been using enough and long enough that he needed more junk every ten hours or so. Yeah, he had it bad. He begged, he threatened, he cursed, he physically attacked Dick.

He didn’t get so much as an aspirin.

Dick locked the windows and doors to keep Roy inside. The cabin was in the middle of almost five hundred acres of Bruce’s undeveloped property but the woods were thick and easy to get lost in. If he went out there, especially at night, it would be a nightmare to get him back.

“What the fuck are you doing with that?”

“GPS anklet. Deal with it.”

“Go to hell.”

There was a fight which took out a small end table and the lamp sitting on it (an antique Tiffany), but Dick finally got Roy down and pinned so the anklet went on.

This was the easy part.

Seventy-three hours into the detox, the hyper part ended. That was when the hard part began.

“Eat something, you need to keep up your strength, Roy.”

“’Not really thinking about food right now.”

“Eat anyway.”

“My stomach’s upset, I’m nauseous.” Roy tried, he took a couple of spoonfuls of the canned soup Dick had heated up, turned green and headed for the bathroom fast but not making it in time. The first rounds landed on the living room rug. The second round was in the bathroom, but not in time to reach the toilet, Dick caught that batch.

“Christ, sorry.”

“S’okay.”

He vomited until all that came up was yellow bile and then continued with dry heaves. Two hours into this, “Jesus, that fucking hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“My stomach, fucking hurts like a bitch.”

“What can I do? Cold pack, heat?”

“Nothing, you can’t do anything.”

Despite the anklet and the obvious pain he was in—and being weak from three hours of vomiting, Roy started trying to get out, get to town, get dope. He tried non-stop, begging, pleading, threatening and finally he took a chair and went out the picture window in the living room. Dick tackled him as he made it as far as the front porch and brought him down, cutting his forearm in the process.

“Oh, fuck—man. Jesus, Dick, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry—you know I’d never do anything to hurt you, you know that, don’t you? I’ll help you—Christ, you need stitches, get the car, I’ll drive us. C’mon, man, I’ll get you help.”

“Get your ass back inside, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Dick, Dude, c’mon…”

“Shut up and get back in there.” Dick pulled the largish sliver of glass out of his arm, relieved to see that it seemed to have missed anything of major importance, and wrapped a clean kitchen towel around it. Tying it with some twine he found in a drawer. Yeah, this needed stitches but they could wait. He knew enough about first aid to make do with some butterflies hoping they’d hold long enough. He knew damn well why Roy wanted to get to town.

“Roy?”

He heard the car motor start and ran outside in time to just catch the driver’s side door as it started to roll, leaning in through the opened window, pushing past Roy. He switched the ignition off then pulled the keys out. “Get the fuck out of the car.”

“Gimme an hour, that’s all, Dick—c’mon. Please.”

His feet back on the ground, Dick got himself out of the car window, yanked the door opened and bodily pulled Roy out onto the ground and then jerked his arm to force him to stand. “Inside.”

“Your arm’s bleeding, man, we’ll just go to a clinic or something, get you patched up.”

“Get your ass inside now.” It was the batvoice; Roy knew he was beaten for now.

Dick marched him into the bathroom, getting out the first aid stuff and forced Roy to just sit while he did what he could for his freely bleeding arm.

“Oh man, Dick, this is my fault—I’m fucking sorry, I mean it—I’m really sorry.” The now blood soaked towel was tossed into the garbage.

“It’s fine, just stop your crap, okay?” Dick was wondering what he could do to block off the broken window and realized that there wasn’t much he could do one handed that Roy wouldn’t be able to blow through in like five seconds. “Come with me and don’t be stupid.” They went to the kitchen, Roy sitting at the small table and Dick pulling out the local phone book. He made a call, found a carpenter who was willing to come, board the broken window up for now and then come back when he had more time and really fix it in a couple of weeks. He’d be there in an hour, as soon as he stopped at Home Depot and picked up a couple of sheets of plywood. He’d have to charge double since it was last minute and all but… “It’s fine, just do it as quickly as possible, please.”

The carpenter hung up and told his wife he’d be back in a few hours—rich kids partying too hard and afraid their parents would find out; it was an old story around here.

Things were quiet for the next twenty minutes; Roy chastised by the sight of Dick’s bloody and bandaged arm. Then: “Where’s the phone?”

“Why?”

“Ollie will wonder where I am. I should call him.”

“I’ll call him for you.”

“I’ll do it, otherwise he’ll wonder.”

“No, he won’t.”

“C’mon, Dick, where’s the phone?”

“Drop it, Roy, you’re not calling your dealer.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Forget it.”

“Fuck you, Grayson, give me the damn phone.”

“No.”

Roy made a grab for Dick’s back jean’s pocket but missed as Dick twisted away and gave him a side handed chop across his neck and spun out of Roy’s reach. He went down—down but not out.

“That frigging hurt.”

“Give me the phone.”

“Roy...”

“Crap.” Roy headed for the bathroom as the dry heaves started again, more violently this time. Dick stayed beside him, using a damp washcloth to wipe his face and neck as the sweat started beading up then dripping down his face and into his clothes.

The two of them sat on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night, Roy vomiting anything he tried to put in his stomach until just bile came up again.

“Jesus, it fucking hurts.”

“What, where does it hurt?”

“My stomach, it’s fucking cramping up, man. Fucking hurts.” Roy’s face was pale now, the sheen of sweat constant, his clothes soaked. The room reeked of vomit and dirty bodies. “C’mon, I need some stuff.”

“No.”

“Dick, Jesus…”

“Tough it out. It’s gonna get better.”

“Not for another fucking week—Dick, fucking please; help me.” He was begging and now he meant it, he was starting the agony.

“No. C’mon, Roy, you can do this. You can beat this.”

Sitting on the filthy floor, Roy looked up at him and started crying. “No, I can’t.”

TBC

 

Return to Detox