Detox

Part Three

“Yes, you can.”

“Dick, please.”

“Stop it, Roy. You know I’m not going to get you any of that shit.” Roy started crying again, in real pain. “You done throwing up for a while?” He nodded weakly. “I’m gonna move you into the bedroom, try to get you out of these clothes and make you a little more comfortable.”

A few minutes later Roy was lying in the bed wearing just a pair of Bruce’s too large sweat pants. He was still sweating, still suffering through the stomach cramps, then, “Jesus…” Dick gave him some cool water to sip and he managed to down almost an entire glass. It made sense—he had to be pretty dehydrated by now. He started moaning again, his hands going to his calves and knees.

“What?”

“My legs are cramping—do something!”

Dick tried; he used his good hand to massage the tight and knotted muscles. The sliced arm was still seeping blood when he did anything with it and he knew that he should have gotten stitches when it happened—impossible as that may have been. If he’d gone to a hospital or clinic, Roy would either be shooting up or in some ER or psych ward, both of which would probably guarantee his death sooner rather than later.

“It’s not helping. Try something else—please, Dick, please.”

Dick went to get a hot water bottle; maybe that would make a difference. It took about ten minutes to heat the water and by the time he got back with the rubber bottle wrapped in a towel, Roy was doubled up in a fetal position, groaning and crying again. He’d also barfed again, this time in the bed and had rolled into the mess.

Dick did what he could to get Roy away from the wet spot so he could try to top change the bed and Roy’s clothes again, but quickly realized there was no point. The mattress would have to be tossed when this was done, along with God knew what else. Bruce would shit—well; he’d just cross that bridge when they got to it.

He gave Roy the hot water bottle, which he immediately clutched against his stomach. The moaning and sweats continued, but, after almost three and a half days with virtually no sleep or food, Roy finally crashed, at least for a while. Dick, equally exhausted but unable to sleep because of more pain than he’d admit from his slashed arm, did what he could to try to clean up some of the mess.

Dick gathered the things which might be salvaged by a trip through the washing machine—their clothes, various towels, bedding and a couple of throw pillows from the living room. He was about to put Roy’s disgusting jeans in when he felt the wallet in the back pocket. Taking it out, he flipped through the contents. There were a few dollars, all singles, the usual insurance cards, his school ID and three social security cards, all with different names and numbers. There was a fake New York State driver’s license with Roy’s name and another with his picture and a different name, this one from Pennsylvania. There were four credit cards with unknown names on them, a platinum MasterCard issued to Oliver Queen and another platinum card, a Visa, for Bruce Wayne. Dick never did find out how he got that one or if it was another forgery.

So was he stealing this stuff or were they all fakes? Did it make any difference?

Shit.

And this was just what he’d found in Roy’s wallet—God knew what all he had stolen and stashed other places. TV’s? Credit cards? Jewelry? Dick remembered Dinah complaining a few months ago that she’d misplaced some expensive gold chain she’d inherited from her grandmother or someone. And pretty much everything hockable in his Titan’s apartment was gone, too.

Roy was right—what a fucking cliché.

His arm began throbbing again and he searched through the medicine cabinet, finding a bottle of extra strength Advil. Popping four, he looked around the cabin while he waited for them to kick in. This place was Bruce’s secret getaway, the one no one knew about, the one without a TV, phone, fax or even a computer. It was understated and even modest, especially by Bruce’s standards; an old log hunting cabin built in the 20’s with a main room/kitchen, one real bedroom, an open loft with a mattress on the floor and a bathroom, that was all. Well, there was a front porch but it was opened on three sides with an ancient glider off to the side. No heat other than a stone fireplace and water from a well, drawn by an electric pump. It faced a small private lake and was set in the middle of hundreds of acres of undeveloped woods. Almost no one knew Bruce Wayne owned the place and the few who did assumed it was just a real estate investment to be developed at some point for huge profits. Dick knew it would stay the way it was; that was Bruce’s plan. When things got to be too much, this was where he came to de-stress for a few days, alone with a pile of books. He’d walk in the woods, read and get centered to fight another day.

Of course, that only happened once every five years or so. He and Roy would be undisturbed.

Finally, exhaustion and the Advil’s combined, and he fell asleep on the old couch, a slightly mildewed blanket covering him.

Some hours later Dick jerked awake. He’d heard something, someone was moving around and his arm was killing him again. The drugs had worn off. “Roy, where are you going?”

“Just wanted some fresh air—this place stinks.”

“Open a window.”

“Need a walk, walk off these cramps.”

“Do some exercises here.”

“Dick, c’mon, they’re getting worse—my back is getting really bad and my shoulders…”

“No.”

Roy looked at him as Dick sat up, his face a mixture of the beginnings of real desperation, pain, frustration and maybe hopelessness. There was no other way, he had to tough this out, he had to stick it out or it wouldn’t work, they both knew this.

The muscle spasms were getting worse—his legs, back, arms, shoulders, his hands and fingers were all cramping, clenching at will and as tight as knots. He was too sick right now to try to run, though Dick didn’t put the effort past him, either.

It all just added to Roy’s misery and they were still a long way from being home free.

“Dick, man, please.”

“Take a hot shower, that may relax your muscles.” Dick stood up. “I’ll help you.”

Roy removed the too big sweats and dropped them on the bathroom floor while Dick started the water and found a couple of towels.

“Jesus!” That was when the diarrhea hit. Without warning and uncontrollable, nonstop and lasting for almost 24 hours. Dick made Roy stay in the bathroom, but, despite at least half a dozen showers, it was still impossible to maintain anything more that the most basic level of anything resembling hygiene in the place.

Soon after it started, Dick realized that Roy was in serious danger of major dehydration and tried to force water since that was all they had. It helped to a degree, but he was sure it wasn’t enough—if Roy made it through this, he’d probably need a couple of weeks in a hospital just to get his body back to a minimum level of functioning.

They opened the windows, Dick mopped and cleaned everything he could, including Roy, but it was a losing battle. The room, Roy and Dick all reeked with the stench and the front room was like a damn funeral parlor with the window boarded up. The carpenter had come and gone, saying nothing, but Dick knew the story of how Wayne’s kid and his friends had trashed the rich guy’s private cabin would be making the local rounds.

After five days of withdrawal, Roy was close to breaking. “I don’t care, get me meth or something. Dick I can’t do this, I can’t.”

“Yes you can, you’re more than halfway through it, you’re gonna be okay.”

“I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t…”

“I’m not getting you any drugs, Roy, you know that. Stop asking.”

“Dick, Jesus, please.”

“No.”

Time seemed to stop, at least as far as Dick was concerned. Exhausted, filthy, hungry and flat out worn out, he was close to breaking, himself. His arm hurt non-stop and he could see it was infected. His entire body ached and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hang on with this, though he knew that if Roy had any hope, this was it.

Dick knew they both needed food, but the only stuff in the cabin was whatever could be had in cans—soup, meat, really bad Italian and various vegetables. He found a couple of pounds of pasta in a plastic bag and decided to make some kind of casserole which might be easy on Roy’s stomach but still provide some protein and vitamins. Leaving Roy on the bathroom floor, he made a quick dinner his own mother used to make when they were broke and she didn’t have time (or the money) to hit a store. A pound of cooked pasta, a can of tuna and a can of cream of chicken soup—quick and easy. Mix them together and you had something you should be able to eat and, with luck, keep down.

“C’mon, Roy, you gotta try to eat some of this.”

“You’re a shitty cook, Grayson.”

“I know, eat it anyway.”

Roy tried, managing a small bowlful and clearly using mind over matter to try to keep it in his stomach. Dick ate what he could of the rest, throwing the leftovers out for some animal to find—the place didn’t have a fridge.

Carrying the empty bowls to the kitchen, Dick knew his arm was getting worse. The pain was still there, the blood still seeped whenever he moved it wrong and reopened the wound and he knew the infection hadn’t succumbed to the small tube of Neosporin he’d found and which was now gone. He had a fever and generally felt pretty much like crap but it was hardly the worst thing which had ever happened to him and he’d learned to be professional at sucking it up. Working as a kid performer and then as Batman’s right hand elf were the best ways he knew to absorb the concept of ‘tough it out’. But he was wishing with all his heart and soul that this would end soon.

Hearing the sounds of Roy’s dinner reappearing, he hoped, as he went back to the bathroom, that this time he hit the toilet and not the floor.

He didn’t.

“C’mon, Roy—you’re on the upside by now, the symptoms usually start subsiding after four or five days. This should be getting easier.”

“’Just moving into the next phase, Junior. Cold sweats, chills and the fucking bugs are eating me from the inside out.” He was scratching his arms, his legs, his belly, his face—everywhere he could reach. “I know the drill, okay?” His nails were slipping and leaving marks in the sheen of sweat which covered his skin. He was shaking with cold and scratching, all at the same time.

‘Junkie Itch’. It was like there are bugs crawling inside your skin, like maggots eating you from the inside out.

“It’s almost over, this is the end of it, Roy, you know that. You get through this and you’re there. Not much longer, man, I’m telling you, hang on a while longer.”

“Go to hell.” Roy’s scratching was becoming frenzied, he was starting to make himself bleed; Dick pulled him into the shower again and turned the cold water on as hard as it would come out of the faucet.

“Does that help?”

“Nothing fucking helps, jackass—even you fucking know that.” Roy’s arm moved too fast for Dick to avoid. Maybe it was a spasm, maybe it was the itching, maybe he was just fed up and striking out; whatever it was, he caught Dick’s face with his full strength and then hit his injured arm dead on.

Dick recoiled, pulling back, trying to prevent any further damage to his now reopened wound but he slipped on the wet floor and went down hard, Roy tripping over him as he lay on the floor. Blood and water now mixed with the residue of vomit, diarrhea making the tile as slippery as ice. They ended up tangled, arms and legs and blood all mixing. “Get the hell off me!”

Crying again, Roy slid into the farthest corner, as far away from Dick as he could get, trying to scratch, his hands on his face, digging into his skin while his limbs twitched and sweat stood out on his skin. Dick let him lay there, getting up to find something to rewrap his forearm before the cut tore more of his flesh than it already had. “Stay here, asshole—you hear me? Don’t frigging move.”

Five minutes or so later Dick had his arm encased in the last relatively clean piece of fabric in the cabin, an old kitchen towel and had it as secured as it was going to get with a couple feet of string. It was going to need serious attention when they got out of here and he was hoping it would heal without any permanent damage but it was too soon to know. Roy was where he’d left him, still scratching, though the muscle spasms seemed to be getting less severe.

“You know as well as I do that even if we get through this, the odds are that I’ll relapse, don’t you?”

Dick sat on the floor next to Roy; a damp washcloth is his hand again to do what little he could to help him feel a little less horrible. “I know the stats, yeah.”

They exchanged a look, both knowing that inside of a week or a month or a year Roy could be back at square one or dead. It was just a fact.

“You’ll be okay. I think you’re gonna make it.”

“You’re a fucking Boy Scout. The odds are ten to one against me, we both know that.”

“Yeah, I know. I also know that you’re a Titan and before that you managed to get past your mother walking out and your father dying in a fire. You’re not a loser.”

Still scratching his face, Roy gave him a filthy look. “And you’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one, Harper. At least you stopped barfing. The cramping getting any better?”

“Not yet. Ten days, that’s what it takes.”

“That’s what I’ve heard and this is day six, so you’re almost there.”

“Yeah, cake walk from here.” He was scratching his left leg—hard, drawing blood. “Maybe the shower will help again.”

The rest of the night was just a variation on previous ones. Roy was in pain; he had Junkie Itch, cold sweats and was shivering. The barfing and the muscle cramps were subsiding, but were still kicking in every once in a while just so he wouldn’t forget them. Finally, lying on the ruined mattress half way through the seventh day, he rallied himself enough to see Dick sitting slumped in the overstuffed easy chair in the corner.

He had a black eye and the left side of his face was swollen and bruised; it looked like his lip was spilt, too. His arm was in some kind of a make-shift sling and was still oozing blood, though Roy had no memory of either of the injuries happening.

Dick's eyes looked up; Roy had the feeling they’d been pried opened by sheer force of will. “You’re awake, good. Any better?”

“Yeah, still feel like half-baked crap on a shingle, but I could eat. ‘You?”

“I guess. I’ll see what we have left in the kitchen.” Dick hoisted himself out of the chair with none of his usual grace. He was moving the way he had when they’d gotten back from a three week go around with Doctor Death and been as whipped as Roy had ever seen Dick. Until now.

So, he’d been as bad as Doctor Death? Jesus.

Dick looked like hell. Dick looked like he felt and that was like total crap.

A few minutes later he came back carrying a tray with a couple mugs of some kind of soup on it. He handed one to Roy and then sat back in the chair to have his own.

“I did that to you?” Roy indicated the various injuries and he already knew the answer; he just wanted to see what Dick’s answer would be. It was just a nod. “I’m sorry.” It was softly spoken and sad.

“’S’okay.”

“No, it isn’t and I won’t forget it.”

“Stay clean, then we’ll be square.” Dick was eating non-stop, clearly famished. “Eat.”

Roy did as he was told. It had been over a week, and most of the withdrawal symptoms were still with him, just reduced to an almost manageable level. He knew they’d fade as days went by. He also knew it was probable that in a month he’d be using again. Dick knew it, too.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dick finished his soup. “Now what? You think you’re almost ready to leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll help you clean this place before we go.” Something occurred to Roy. “Who knows we’re here?”

“No one—well, the local carpenter who blocked up the front window. He just thinks we’re a couple of drunk college kids or something.”

“Who knows about me?”

“Me.”

“And?”

“And you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah—who did you want me to tell?”

Roy stopped talking. Nobody. That’s who he wanted Dick to tell; no body. “Thanks.”

“You said that already.” Dick always was one for understatement.

“Look, I’ll be okay” Roy saw the look on Dick’s face but went on. “You get some sleep—you look like shit. I’ll do what I can to clean, or…”

“Or what? You don’t really think I’m going to sleep right now, do you?”

“Maybe not. What I was going to say was that we can make some calls and find someone to clean this place up and we’ll—I’ll give them money.”

“There’s no phone and my cell is dead.” Dick shook his head, close to his own breaking point. “We’ll clean as much as we can and then we’ll come back in a week or two and replace everything that’s been ruined. I’ll get that carpenter to replace the window and we’ll take it from there ourselves. With any luck at all, Bruce won’t find out any time soon.”

“He’s gonna find out, though.”

“Of course he is, just not now.”

Four hours later, both of them whipped, and Roy still hurting from residual withdrawal and Dick in pain from his arm and the shots he’d taken from Roy, the cabin was as clean as they’d be able to get it for now. “You think you can handle going back now? I mean…”

“You mean am I going to call a dealer when we get back? I’m going to call Star Labs when we get back and have them find me the best rehab guy on the East Coast and I’m going to do whatever he says—a halfway house, formal rehab—whatever it takes.”

“Yeah?” Dick looked dubious. That sounded too easy, too glib.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I don’t want to have to go through this again.”

“You and me both, bro.”

The car still had the scratches on the driver’s door from where Roy had dragged Dick during his escape attempt days ago. Neither of them had thought to close the window and some animal had made a nest on the back seat. Inured to such things at this point, they simply swept the leaves and feces out with their hands and forgot about them. Dick was in increasing pain from his arm, Roy still wracked by leftover withdrawal. It would take a while for both of them to recover from this. They both knew they probably should have stayed another week, but neither of them could stand the small, fetid place any longer.

They were still both kids, Titans or not and they’d both hit their personal walls…for better or worse.

They pulled onto Route 90, heading home. “You gonna tell Ollie? He’s gotta know.”

“Yeah, when I get back, as soon as I see him. You gonna tell the Bat?”

“I guess, eventually.”

They watched the scenery go by for a dozen miles. “Dick, how come you did this?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Too easy, Rob, and you answered a question with a question.”

A few minutes went by before Dick answered. Roy saw cows in a field. “I don’t have many friends—I mean real friends. I don’t want to lose any. And we’ve been through a lot of the same crap—I don’t mean fighting the bad guys; I mean losing our families, dealing with screwed up rich guys like Bruce and Ollie. It’s like we’re karmic brothers or something.” Dick stopped, embarrassed.

Roy looked over at him, Dick watching the road as he drove, not making eye contact. “Yeah.”

“But Roy? You slip—you’re gone.”

“Yeah, I know—in more ways than one, Bro.”

6/15/08

Return to Detox