Addiction

by Roberta Blablanski

  “Oh, dear. Was it a car accident? My brother was hit by a car when he was twelve. He jaywalked across the street to buy candy from the drugstore. Hit his head on the street and broke his arm. I said that was his punishment for not listening to Momma. She told him no candy.”

  Dex was on the verge of screaming in exasperation. “I have to go. Please tell Principal Hardin and get my classes a sub.” Dex ended the call before Peggy could go off on another tangent.

  To add to his frustration, the parking garage at the hospital was packed. He should have gotten a ride, that way he wouldn't be fighting to find an empty spot. More wasted time! He slammed his hands on the steering wheel and growled.

  He found a cluster of empty spaces on the very top floor. He parked and jumped out, slamming his door and pushing the lock button on his key fob. Not even waiting for the chirp of the locks slowed him down.

  The elevator to the hospital ground floor took several minutes to reach him. He nervously tapped his foot and tried not to think about what would happen when he got to Owen.

  Once he reached the hospital, he almost ran to the second set of elevators that would take him to the third floor. He purposely kept his thoughts at bay, not wanting the panic to overtake him. He needed a clear head in order to make the decisions he would be asked to make for Owen.

  The nurse’s station was located right outside the bank of elevators. Dex wanted to sob with relief. No more long hallways to reach his destination.

  He gave one of the nurses his information and was directed to an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair to wait while the doctor was paged. He used that time to email the exam for his classes and sent Patrick a short text explaining where he was.

  A few minutes later, a short Asian woman with a sleek black bob and horn-rimmed glasses approached him with her hand extended. “I'm Dr. Wen. I understand you're here for Mr. Fredrikson.”

  Her grip was firm and instilled confidence in Dex. “Yes, I'm here for Owen. I'm Dex Atterbury.”

  Dr. Wen led Dex to a private room where she pulled up Owen's chart on a tablet. ‘Mr. Fredrikson has a concussion and bruised ribs. There are several lacerations to his face. Two deep ones required stitches.”

  Dex gasped.

  Dr. Wen continued, “His left ankle is fractured. The x-rays indicate a previous fracture and the hardware that was used to repair it is damaged. This is the part you need to consent to. We will need to remove the old hardware, piece back together the bones, and secure with new hardware. All of that will require surgery.”

  “Of course, I consent! If he needs the surgery, please do it. Where do I sign?” Dex scanned the room as if the forms would magically appear.

  “The nurse has all the forms and paperwork you need. He’ll give you a packet of information which will explain the procedure and risks, recovery time, et cetera. You can review the material, and we'll answer any questions you might have prior to your authorization.”

  “No, no. I'll sign off with no problem.”

  “I recommend you read the information first.”

  “But you said he needs the surgery, so I'll sign.” Dex wasn't a doctor. If Dr. Wen recommended the surgery, who was Dex to question her professional opinion? “Do you know what happened?”

  “He was found by the cops on patrol, unconscious on the beach, beaten and bloody. They called it in, and Mr. Fredrikson was taken to the emergency room here.”

  “Oh, God.” Dex’s hands flew to his mouth in horror. “Did he say what happened?”

  Dr. Wen shook her head. “As I said, he was unconscious when he arrived by ambulance. He’s been kept sedated and comfortable until you could be reached and conferred with regarding options and treatment.”

  Sedated and comfortable. What did that mean exactly? What drugs had Owen been given and what damage would those drugs do to his current state? “He’s addicted to Oxycodone.”

  Dr. Wen's demeanor didn't change at this information. “We can give him prescription-strength ibuprofen. It won’t control the pain in the same way, however. He will have some discomfort, but if you are concerned about his history with opioids, we will make that adjustment.”

  “I think that would be best.” Owen was going to strangle him for making that decision, but he knew it was for the best. He thanked his past self for insisting they each get proper documentation that would allow them to handle such matters when they got engaged. “Can I see him?”

  “I can take you to his room, and you can wait there while we get the OR prepped. I do want to warn you, though; his appearance may shock you. His face is bruised and swollen. He may look unrecognizable to you.”

  Dex swallowed hard. “I understand.” The doctor didn't know how long ago Dex had last seen Owen and that Dex might have been shocked at Owen's appearance despite the injuries to his face.

  Dex followed Dr. Wen down a long, sterile hall, the smell of antiseptic burning his nose. She stopped at room 311, the door open just a crack.

  “Go on in, and I'll put in the surgery orders. The nurse will be by with the materials we discussed.” She left him standing outside the door, trepidation keeping his feet from moving.

  It had been months since he last saw Owen, the day he walked out. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly, warring with himself for weeks before packing up. The guilt of turning his back on Owen and walking away from him when Owen needed support killed a piece of Dex’s heart each day.

  Dex took a deep breath and pushed through the door of Owen’s hospital room. The lights were dimmed, but Dex could make out Owen in the bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. His face was hidden in the darkness, prolonging Dex’s view of the damage.

  He walked over to the bed and sat in the chair beside Owen. He avoided looking at Owen’s face and carefully took his hand, mindful of the IV line. His skin was warm and slightly clammy. Dex wrapped his hand around Owen’s and gave a gentle squeeze.

  Steeling himself for the worst, he lifted his gaze to Owen’s face. A choked gasp escaped his lips, and he swallowed down a sob. His beautiful Owen was unrecognizable.

  A bandage covered the left side of his face from temple to cheek. Deep purple bruises and red abrasions colored his face. The cut above his right eyebrow looked angry around the stitches holding it closed.

  “Oh, Owen. How did this happen?” Dex whispered. A single tear fell, splattering on Owen’s hand. Dex wiped the track from his face and closed his eyes.

  Several minutes passed before the nurse entered the room with the packet of forms and information for Dex. He thanked the nurse, signed the authorizations, and handed them back.

  He took Owen’s hand again after the nurse left. He knew he should probably read the information provided by the hospital but sitting beside Owen in silence seemed to be more important right now.

  Whenever Dex fantasized about seeing Owen again, this scenario was far from anything he imagined. The reunion he pictured featured Owen, healthy and thriving, not laid up in a hospital bed. His broken body was like a skeleton underneath the hospital covers. Broken from the pills that imprisoned him and broken from the violence that went hand-in-hand with drug addiction.

  Owen’s cheek—the one not marred by the damaged hidden by gauze and tape—was hollowed, his eyes sunken in. How much weight had he lost?

  The nurse reappeared to prep Owen for surgery. Dex moved out of the way to the couch against the far wall. Several other hospital staff members filtered in and out, working efficiently. He watched them draw blood, administer medication into Owen's IV, and mark his left leg with a large X in black marker.

  “You're welcome to stay here during surgery. I'll wheel him back to this room once he's in recovery,” the nurse addressed Dex. “Dr. Wen will speak to you after to let you know how everything went.”

  “Thank you.” Dex nodded at the nurse and prepared himself for a long day of waiting.

  * * * * *

  moan from the bed drew Dex's attention away from the harlequin romance novel he purchased from the hosp
ital gift shop. Owen was trying to sit up and managed to tangle his IV line in the covers.

  Dex sprinted over to his bed. “Here, let me help you.”

  Owen jerked at the sound of Dex's voice. “Dex?” he asked, incredulously. His eyes were wide and unfocused.

  Concentrating on straightening out the mess Owen made, Dex avoided his gaze.

  “What are you doing here?” Owen looked around the hospital room. “What am I doing here?”

  “Let me call the nurse.” Dex didn't know what to say. How much did Owen remember? And how much should Dex tell him?

  Dex reached for the call button, but Owen grabbed his arm. Dex stilled. That familiar touch made him shiver.

  “Dex?” Owen said his name softly, pleadingly. Dex sensed a note of fear in Owen's voice.

  “I really should get the nurse.” Please, Owen, let me go.

  Owen loosened his grip but didn't release Dex's arm. “Please tell me what's going on.”

  Dex fell into the chair next to the bed. “I'll tell you what I know, but first, let the nurse check you out.”

  Owen pressed the call button himself but let Dex inform the nurse that Owen was awake. Dex didn't know what to say as they waited. How've you been? It's been a while. What have you been up to? Dex almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Their worlds had once been consumed by each other. Right now, Owen felt like a stranger, and Dex’s heart hurt.

  “Can you get me some water?” Owen asked. ”My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth.”

  Dex poured water from the pitcher on the side table into a Styrofoam cup. He put a straw in the cup and handed the cup to Owen, avoiding touching his hand. He didn't know if he could handle the contact.

  “How's our patient doing?” A cart rolled in followed by a plump woman in blue scrubs. She busied herself with reading the various machines and other medical contraptions surrounding Owen. If she sensed the tension in the room, she ignored it. “The surgery on your broken ankle went very well. The surgeon is pleased with the results. Now don’t go breaking it again. I hear this is the second time!”

  She took Owen's vitals, moving swiftly while asking questions about his pain level and comfort. Dex hoped her visit would last long enough so he could get his thoughts in order.

  “Everything looks great! Doc has you on a clear liquid diet for now, and I'll have that sent up to you in the next hour. Don't gobble it down too fast, though, or you'll upchuck it all, and we wouldn't want that!”

  Dex pretended to pick back up on his book but looked up when Owen grimaced. Dex didn’t blame him for his less-than-enthusiastic response. He guessed Owen hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. I would want a big, juicy hamburger or a steak with a baked potato covered in butter, not juice and broth. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day.

  “Your boyfriend better not sneak any food into this room for you,” she playfully chastised. “If you can keep the liquids down, you’ll get a hearty breakfast in the morning.”

  Dex opened his mouth to correct her assumption of their relationship. They should be husbands by now, and he should be telling the nurse they were married and not merely dating. That faint stab to his heart returned, and he restrained himself from grabbing his chest. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep. Had he properly mourned the loss of their relationship?

  The nurse spoke before he could get a word out. “Can you follow me to the nurse’s station? Dr. Wen asked me to give you some more paperwork.”

  He followed her out, mentally rolling his eyes. This hospital loved its paper.

  7

  OWEN

  OWEN WAS GETTING a sense of déjà vu. Being in the hospital recovering from surgery on his left ankle – among other, less serious injuries from what he could ascertain – took him back to the first time he broke his ankle. His current state was eerily similar.

  His original injury was a result of an amateur drag competition fundraiser Sammy persuaded him to enter.

  Owen read the flier announcing Klub Kelly’s First Annual Drag Show Bash benefiting Happy Endings, an assisted living facility for LGBTQ+ elderly. It was pinned to the bulletin board in the breakroom and stood out from the other random notices and cartoon strips hanging there. The flier was printed on highlighter yellow paper and featured a terrible drawing of a person sporting gigantic boobs, obnoxiously long eyelashes, and bright red lips, holding a microphone.

  “The winner gets the title of Amateur Drag Queen or King until next year’s competition and his name on a plaque mounted in the piano room of Happy Endings.” Sammy’s voice got increasingly higher as he spoke. “Your name will forever be known! Because it will be on a plaque!” He squealed and hopped onto the balls of his feet. “In the piano room!”

  Owen winced at Sammy’s screech. “And I have to do this why?”

  “You’re a shoo-in. With that body and all that hair, you’ll be amazing to put together.” Sammy gazed off into the distance. “You’ll be dressed in silver sparkles with a pink feather boa. Glitter on your lovely cheekbones, a nice soft pink on your full lips.” He sighed.

  “Okay, you’re getting creepy.” Owen snapped his fingers in front of Sammy’s face to break his reverie. “Why do you want me to win?”

  “Sweetie, when everyone gets word that I created you, they will all come rushing to participate in Gaymer Date Night’s own drag competition!”

  “I see now. This is a self-serving request.” Owen counted the loose change from his pocket.

  “Not completely!” Sammy followed Owen to the vending machine on the far side of the breakroom. “It’ll be your name, not mine, on the plaque. You’ll get the recognition, really. But you’ll tell anyone who congratulates you that it was I who made it happen.”

  Feeding coins into the machine, Owen asked, “You or Gaymer Date Nights?”

  Sammy slammed his hand over the coin intake slot. “Okay, fine. Gaymer Date Nights, not me. Soon my name will be synonymous with GDN and there will be no need for the distinction.”

  “I will bite your finger off if you don’t move your hand.”

  Sammy withdrew his hand. “Hangry much?”

  “Don’t get between me and my Butterfinger.”

  “I will buy you a lifetime supply of that disgusting, crunchy, fake peanut buttery grossness if you’ll just agree to this.”

  “Grossness? More like goodness.” Owen inserted the rest of his change and selected his candy bar.

  As he bent down to retrieve the candy from the bottom of the machine, Sammy grabbed Owen’s butt and squeezed. Owen jerked up and yelped, his hand catching in the flap. “What the hell was that for? And help me get my hand unstuck, dammit!”

  Sammy crouched down, taking in Owen’s trapped hand. “Let go of the Butterfinger first.”

  Owen loosened his grip, letting the candy bar fall with a thud. “If my Butterfinger is broken, you’re buying me another one,” he admonished as Sammy pushed opened the panel door. Owen withdrew his hand, an ugly red mark on his wrist.

  “Like I said, I’ll buy you a lifetime supply in exchange for your entry in the drag competition. Also, I had to check out the firmness of your butt. Verdict: it’s firm enough to not need shapewear.”

  “Shapewear? Is that a torture device?” Was that like a bat used to whip a butt into the proper shape to fit into clothing? What the hell did women put themselves through for the sake of fashion?

  “Never you mind. I have an appointment for you with a personal shopper at Not Your Momma’s Closet. We’ll find the best outfit for your routine.”

  Performing in drag actually sounded like fun. He couldn’t let Sammy off the hook too easily though. “I still don’t see what’s in it for me. Wait. You made a shopping appointment before talking to me about participating?” He took a bite of his candy, which managed to survive in one piece.

  The innocent look on Sammy’s face didn’t fool him.

  Okay, maybe he was going to give in easily. “I a
m not tucking. The goods stay where they are.”

  “We’ll find something with a poofy skirt, then.” Sammy nodded like a bobblehead.

  “The list of IOUs gets longer by the day, Sammy. When are you going to settle up?” Owen wasn’t keeping score and didn’t expect anything from Sammy, making him squirm and beg was payment enough. But he wasn’t going to tell Sammy that.

  Sammy patted Owen's cheek. "I'll pick you up at nine o'clock tomorrow."

  * * * * *

  Not Your Momma’s Closet was the place for all things drag, according to Sammy. Three-quarters of the shop was dedicated to queens: wigs, costumes, shoes, makeup, the dreaded shapewear. The remaining space was filled with suits, ties, fake mustaches and beards, hats, and binders--anything a drag king could need.

  "This is amazing," Dex breathed in awe. "I'm so glad you let me come along."

  Owen kissed Dex's cheek. He was delighted when Dex expressed an interest in the day's errands. "As if I could have stopped you. You're more excited at the prospect of seeing me in drag than Sammy is about my agreeing to participate."

  "You're going to look amazing." Dex tugged gently on one of Owen's curls.

  Owen's face warmed at the compliment. Some days he couldn't believe he was engaged to someone as sweet and loving as Dex.

  "Quit with the moony eyes and get over here, Owen!" Sammy demanded. He was standing next to a beautiful man in a gray seersucker suit with a bright yellow bowtie. "Leon, this is Owen, your guinea pig," Sammy said by way of introduction. "He's going to win the drag competition at Klub Kelly with your expertise."

  "Pleasure to meet you, Owen." Leon purred. "I have a fitting room prepared with some garments I chose specially for you after speaking with Sammy. He told me all about you, sweetheart."