TITLE: Rituals
AUTHOR: Ceri
EMAIL: ceriellis@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: JC
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: none
ARCHIVE: Sure, just ask
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters, NBC does unfortunately.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Boredom can bring about some strange stuff. This is
one of them.
SUMMARY: Just another conversation in rehab.

RITUALS

"Do you believe in God?"

He looked up. Their eyes met across the table, and they shared a
smile. It was about time - three o'clock. If a day passed without
such a conversation, things were not the same. Aside from being a
welcome distraction from the program, it was nice to make a friend in
that place. Most people were withdrawn, keeping to themselves.but she
had introduced herself to him straight away. An unlikely friendship
had formed.something that he was very grateful for.

"No."

Her eyebrows rose curiously, and she leant forward, resting her
elbows on the cold metal on the tabletop. "You don't?"

He shook his head, watching her with a certain air of detachment. "Do
you?"

Her face, though pale, looked somehow beautiful as her lips twisted
in to a smile. She had told him, in an earlier three o'clock
conversation, how she saw herself as an ugly, unlovable person. They
were so alike in that manner. Both with insecurities, complexes about
being unloved. But he couldn't see it in her. She was not, by
convention, a beauty. Her skin was chalk white, setting off her slate-
grey eyes startlingly. Her lips were thin and cracked; her bleached-
blond hair was scraped back in to a messy bun, her darker roots
showing through. But behind the used and abused appearance, he saw
the potential to be beautiful. When she smiled, it lit up her face.
And there was something in those eyes that entranced him - darkened
corridors of her mind, shadows of her past lurking there..as yet
undiscovered. Maybe no one had tried to dissect her curious mind.who
knew. But there was something about her that intrigued him, that made
him want to continue the ritual of conversation.

"I guess I do," she replied, bringing a cigarette to her lips and
lighting it with practiced flair. "I mean...my mom and dad were
really in to the whole church deal..." She paused, sucking at the end
of the cigarette and exhaling slowly. "I think that's what got me
through this whole shit...thinking someone cares...someone loves
me...even if I can't see Him."

He nodded, then looked up at the sky, at the billowing grey clouds
that hung over them, as thick as congealed blood. "You think God's
watching you now?"

She chuckled - a foreign sound to anyone's ears - and shrugged. "I'll
be damned if I know. Maybe He's busy saving lives or whatever." She
smiled once more, dropping her gaze to study the ash that dropped on
to the table. "No...He's with me...making sure I don't screw up
again."

He smiled, keeping his eyes on her. "If He's watching you now, then
He must be watching me," he commented dryly. "And getting His
thunderbolts out."

Her eyes were on his immediately. "Have you always not believed?" she
questioned. "Or is this a recent thing?"

It was his time to chuckle - a sarcastic, almost forced laugh that
echoed emptily around the courtyard. "Oh, it was more of a gradual
thing. I guess I used to believe...and then - " He paused, unsure
whether or not to continue. "Then my brother died. And I just gave up.
and then...on and off, I guess...until I just completely gave up on
God, on a higher being, on anyone or anything controlling what the
hell was going on in my life."

She watched him with little sympathy, taking another long, luxurious
drag of her cigarette. "So what was it that changed your mind?"

"I need a reason?"

"Everyone has a reason."

They stared at each other evenly, then grinned. He shrugged again -
second nature to him, since ambiguity in this place meant not having
to reveal his sordid secrets - and dropped his gaze, studying his
blemished hands. "I guess...I guess it was just...one thing after
another."

"Such as?" she prompted eagerly, leaning forward once more, a
mischievous smile playing on her lips. "I mean...you have to expand
on that. C'mon, John. Tell me what happened that made you so jaded. I
mean...you shared in group...is that why you don't believe? You were
stabbed, and your friend died, and it's all God's fault?"

"Maybe," he replied at last, his tone vague and
disinterested. "Well...you know that's why I'm in here..."

She nodded, flicking some ash from the end of her cigarette and
watched as it fell to the ground, slipping up and down with the
undercurrents of the brisk wind. "You told us that much in
group...didn't satisfy the big bosses, though." When the ash finally
reached the ground, she looked up again, meeting his eyes. "They like
their addicts to be caring and sharing."

They shared a wry smile, and she took another long drag of her
cigarette, looking like she was relishing the experience. She always
smoked as if it was her first and last cigarette - she made it last
as long as possible, holding on to every second as if it were a
precious commodity.

"So what happens now? I share, you care?"

She smirked. "Sure. Why not?"

He leant back in the hard metal seat - not the picture of comfort,
but it was good to be sitting outside - and paused for a long moment.
Of all he had been through in his life, this was the most difficult
to talk about. He had never found it that easy to be honest about
what he was thinking or feeling, something which he could easily
blame on his non-communicative parents, but didn't. Surely anything
that happened to him was his own fault? He had let it all happen, he
had brought it on himself...and there was no one else he could place
the blame on.

"Physical scars heal," she spoke up philosophically, putting out her
cigarette in the ash tray and reaching for another. She offered him
one from the packet, which he accepted, and there was a short silence
as they both took the exhilarating first drag of their cigarettes.
Blowing smoke out through her nose - not an attractive skill, he
noted - she prepared to continue. "Physical scars will fade...until
you can forget that they ever really existed. But it doesn't work
with emotional scars. If you ignore them, pretend that they're not
there...they won't go away. They'll stay as fresh, as raw as the day
they appeared. Sometimes you have to be selfish. You have to pay
yourself some attention, talk about what's bothering you...talk about
the scars. Then, they can start to heal...and fade...and you never
know - you might forget they were there, after a while."

The silence was palpable until she giggled. He glanced up at her,
studying her smiling eyes. "I almost sound wise, don't I?" she asked
dryly. He smiled.

"Almost."

"So?" she prompted. "I can tell you have emotional scars, John - I
can see it in your eyes. No matter how hard you try to guard
yourself...sometimes, you slip up...and anyone can see you're
hurting."

"Okay," he started, slouching back against the chair once
more. "Where did my little faith in a higher being go? Why am I such
a jaded, cynical human being?2 He paused, exhaling deeply, watching
as plumes of smoke drifted from his mouth. "If there is a God, why
does he let people die? Why does he let innocent people die? Why does
he turn people in to monsters - either through their own choice or by
some kind of mental defect?"

"I always kinda wondered about that," she commented. "But I figure,
it's the free will thing. We make our own decisions. Some of `em just
happen to be the wrong ones."

"People don't decide to be schizophrenic."

She looked up sharply. "No. They don't. But not even doctors really
know where that comes from...DNA...environment...things that we can't
control."

"So why doesn't this all powerful God control it?" he asked. "Why
can't he stop people getting ill? People attacking others? People
dying because of it?"

Her gaze was sympathetic as she stared at him. "I don't know," she
answered simply. "These things happen."

"They happen?" he repeated incredulously. "That's all you have?"

She suppressed a small smile. "I don't know what more I can possibly
say. I'm a doctor, not a theologian."

He sighed deeply, running his hand over his face wearily. "And even
doctors can't heal scars."

"All we can do, as doctors," she replied softly. "Is try our best.
Try and help people. I guess that sometimes, we can't help them. That
isn't our fault, or their fault, or God's fault - "

"Then whose is it?"

She tilted her head to the left, a thoughtful expression crossing her
face. "No one's," she said at last, nodding in agreement with
herself. "Shit happens. We could try and trace it back to whoever
shot a guy, or whoever passed on a mutated gene to their child.but
essentially, we'd get lost in the mess of it all. If we constantly
look for someone to blame, we never give ourselves time to adjust to
it.to try and help us or them...to learn from what happened."

"So...you don't blame yourself for your addiction?" he asked. She
stared back at him, her face momentarily blank, then she adopted a
look of mild amusement, and shrugged.

"It would be very easy to blame myself," she told him. "Then I'd have
a reason for it happening...it wouldn't just be a random act. But if
I blame myself - no matter whether or not it really is my fault -
it's not going to help me get over it. It's not going to stop me
wishing I was high. All it can really achieve is making me
miserable." She paused, as if she was sizing him up. "You blame
yourself."

"I do?" he asked, slightly sarcastically. Of course he blamed
himself. That was a given in these circumstances.

"And you know it," she snorted, rolling her eyes and flicking some
more ash from her cigarette. "You blame yourself for not calling
Psych. You blame yourself for letting your friend die. And you blame
yourself for letting yourself get caught up with painkillers...for
landing yourself here, when you don't even think you're an addict."

He frowned. "I - "

"Admit it,2 she interrupted. "You see yourself as different from the
rest of us. You were a victim of a brutal attack. Your addiction came
about through circumstance, through a vast amount of pain. You're not
the average junkie. But that doesn't make you any less of an addict."

The atmosphere had changed dramatically. Her words cut through him
like ice, her even stare making him grossly uncomfortable. And, deep
down, he knew she was right. Of course she was right. She was the
most sensible, astute, wise heroin addict he had ever come across.
She had told him, a few weeks after his arrival, that this wasn't her
first time there. It showed. She wasn't a shadow of a person like
others at the centre; she was collected, calmly self-deprecating. She
knew what was wrong, and was willing to try and stop it. Her one
weakness was what had brought her there in the first place, and she
was the first to admit it. He only wished he could be at such a point
after rehabilitation.

"I know it's hard to face," she added after a long, almost painful
silence. "But it's the best thing you can do. Once you've admitted
that yes, you're an addict, and yes, you can help yourself rather
than push yourself back down to the lowest point of your life so far,
it all becomes a whole lot easier."

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, meeting her own across the table. He saw
the wealth of understanding and experience in her eyes, and was
comforted. Here was someone who knew what he was going through, to
some extent.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't an addict..." he reasoned weakly.

"Maybe," she conceded lightly. "Or maybe it's other people who think
you're an addict that got you here. If you've convinced yourself that
it's all them, and not you, then it's not the same."

It wasn't him. It was Abby Lockhart. It was Kerry and Mark and
Ansapaugh. It was Deb. It was Benton. They had made the decision for
him.and he played along with it. He wasn't an addict.

"You're right," he lied calmly, glancing up at her. "It's not the
same. I - you're right. It is me. It's not them."

The look in her eyes - that stare that penetrated in to his very
soul, and uncovered all his secrets - frightened him. She knew he was
lying. He knew he was lying. There was no changing it. For one brief
second, he saw disappointment in those deep eyes. The next second, it
was gone, and she was getting to her feet, stubbing out her
cigarette.

"It's four o'clock," she smiled softly, gesturing to her watch. "Time
for a heart-to-heart with my favourite psychologist."

He managed a small smile, looking up at her. "Have fun," he
replied. "Don't scare him too much."

She chuckled, and held out her hand. "Until tomorrow, John."

"Tomorrow," he agreed, shaking her hand. He watched as she
disappeared in to the centre, his gaze falling finally on the empty
seat opposite him.

****