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Author: Flicker [Alex]

Rating: PG, PG-13?

Genre: ER; Angst [Abby POV]

Summary: In my life, everything goes around in bitter circles. I thought for several crazy years I was doing okay. And then I started to forget. Forget what "okay" meant. What six years of sobriety did for me. I'm forgetting and I'm lost and I don't want help. I don't *need* help. I don't.

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Just when I thought that I was better

I realized that I don't know what better was

Is it better than I used to be?
Better for you or for me?

---

I breathe out and the smoke surrounds me, its ashy smell engulfing me. Choking me. Killing me. I watch as Carter comes out of the ER and looks around. He’s probably finished his shift.

Oh god. I would hide if there were anywhere to hide. Go away. I don’t need this. Not now.

He sees me and walks towards me. He doesn’t smile. He studies the mental wall I’ve built around me. I feel a faint pull at my lips as I smile painfully. The smile of a guilty person caught red-handed.

"Hey."

"Smoking again." He says it flippantly, not questioningly. I pull my scrubs closer around me with one hand and take another puff. To show him. Show him I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t . . .

"I’ve always smoked. It’s –" I reach to explain, but he shrugs, as if he doesn’t care. I shut up. It annoys me that suddenly everything I do or feel or want is under question when I’m around him. I don’t care . . .

His foot kicks at the curb of the pavement and his back is to the entrance of the ambulance bay, so that he faces me. But his head is down; he doesn’t say anything. Why doesn’t he say it? Why doesn’t he ask me? Why?

". . . I’m on a break." I struggle for conversation in the uncomfortable silence. I was never made for small talk. But then again, with him, there was no need.

"I’m off but--" He continues to look at the ground.

". . . But what?" I prompt. I’m daring him now. I’m daring him to yell at me. So I can yell back. So I can tell him how much I hate this all. How much I hate this stupid circle of events. How much I hate my life.

He hesitates and he looks as if he is going to say something, but in the end, doesn’t. He stops kicking the curb. Instead, he paces slowly in front of me, making circles. I give up and breathe in more nicotine.

"Were you even going to tell me?" On the last word he looks up at me. He looks angry and incredulous, but he cares. It’s amazing how bad he can make me feel.

"Yes." I lie quietly. He laughs dryly.

"God, Abby! Don’t lie to me. You owe it to me to tell the truth, at least." I don’t look at him. But then I feel frustrated, and my mouth opens, and I say,

"I don’t owe you anything." I don’t mean to say it, but I’m angry. Why does he suddenly care? He has Susan now, so what the hell am I for? He obviously didn’t care that night I told him, that night when I told him what I wanted. I can’t be his friend anymore. I don't want to be his friend anymore. And he made it perfectly clear he didn’t want me. Maybe he did, once, but not anymore.

"You’re right, you don’t. You don’t owe me a thing. But I owe it to you to help you, Abby. And I can’t help you if you don’t tell me that you’re drinking again." He rakes a hand through his hair. I’ve lost track of time, but I’m sure my break is over by now. But there’s no sign of escape unless someone comes out looking for me.

I hate this conversation. I’ve heard it over and over so many times in my head. I knew what he would say, how he would try to help me and how I would hate him and hate what he had to say, even though I knew he was right. I knew he was right and I hated it.

"You know, I don’t think I want to be ‘helped’ right now." He’s got me angry now. He's gotten me angry and indignant and I feel pissed. "I don’t need your help. I’ve been doing okay without your help for weeks now. And why should I listen to you? Why should I listen to what you think is right, or what you feel would be good for me, or what you want me to do? Because I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I had a life before John Carter. I had a life before you. And I don’t need you and I don’t need your help! I don’t want your advice. I don’t want a shrink . . .just leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone Carter." I beg him with my eyes. Beg him to let it pass, let me go. I can’t be strong anymore, I can’t go on. I’ve given up and I appeal to him to give up too. To give up on me. Please. He looks at me, and I never see his determination waver. He watches me with sad eyes. But not pitying eyes. Never pity. From him it was always empathy. I fall into his eyes . . .

"No." He shakes his head at me. "No." He repeats with certainty. "You don't need a shrink. What you need is a friend. I can’t let you do this Abby. I care about you and I care about your life and I can’t watch you do this to yourself. You’ve come to far to give up." I hate him.

"God, can’t you just give up?! I’m fine Carter, just *fine*!" I yell at him, but I want to scream. I want to hit out at something -- anything. I want a drink . . .

"Abby . . ." He watches me tear my life apart. And I don’t care.

"I can do the hell I want with my life!" I stop and momentarily, feel bad, but my anger pushes it away. This is no time for logic, or sense. It’s about what I want, what I need. And I don’t care what he thinks or what he thinks he knows. "I’m a drunk, Carter. And I need to be." I shrug. "I need it." I turn around, turn my back on him, on sobriety. I give up and walk back towards the ER.

"You’re stronger than that, Abby. You don’t need anything." He calls after me. I don’t say a thing, but I laugh bitterly inside. If I don’t need it, then why do I feel so empty without it?

---

Epilogue

---

I turn the key in the lock and the door opens easily. Luka did a good job with it. My apartment, however, looks like it got trashed. Home sweet home.

I take the grocery bag from under my arm and set it on the table. I kick the door shut, and make sure it locks.

I sit down and I feel like crap and exhausted and lonely. I hate it. I hate it all. And that’s what I keep on thinking as I pull out a bottle from the grocery bag and pop open the lid. I hate it all. I hate it all. I pull the bottle to my lips and think faintly of Carter as I take my first gulp of the bitter alcohol. How I hate it all. And how disappointed he must be.

And you know what?

I don’t care. Not anymore.

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Author's Note: I don't know whether I should continue. Ideas? Comments? Any would be muchly appreciated. =)