The Sad Truth
Part Two
By Emily
FallenLilac22@cs.com

Benton ended up eating alone that night. He didnt have much of an appetite, instead, his brain was filled with thoughts and his heart weighed down by different emotions. The primary one was sadness. Carter was supposed to be a tough kid. A fighter. Not some drug addict. Not some smuggler of painkillers, who cried in private, who didnt eat or sleep, and pushed away help by burying himself with work. Benton was also anxious. After seeing Carter clinging to the bed, sobbing, he was disturbed. He sat outside of the guest room-just in case. Unfortunately, he knew very well that Carter was thinking of suicide. That fact chilled him. He knew that Kerry knew it, Mark too. But they just didnt want to show it.

Luckily for Peter, the guest room was within a few feet of his bedroom. Come on, man, Benton told himself. Carter isnt some dependent little kid. He's a grown man. But he knew that he wasnt in the state of mind to make his own decisions. He's a fucking addict. Realize it. Get him help. You're SUPPOSED to be there for him. He wanted to be friends day after day, and you refused. Too caught up in your own life. Too afraid of getting into a friendship with anyone. But after the stabbing, something triggered in Benton's heart. Something telling him, that Carter needed a friend, a mentor, and he needed one NOW. So from Valentine's Day on, Benton was there. But obviously, not there enough. Look at him-he's not the Carter I once knew.
Physically and mentally. He looks older and sadder. Well, what would you look like if you almost lost your life in a senseless tragedy? All these thoughts swung through Peter's head, as he drifted off to sleep.

The guest room was freezing. Carter had fallen asleep in his work clothes, with a few blankets over him. His nails were blue. His body shook and shivered, chills running through his spine, teeth chattering. But more evident in his mind was the brutal back pain. He turned over on his side. Where the hell am I? He thought. He was too weak and in pain to walk around. Instead, he saw the plaque on the wall. Peter Benton, it said. Oh, that's why I dont recognize the place. Then, he remembered the episode of crying he had suffered a few hours back. Fuck, he thought. I am the worst excuse for a person. I shouldnt be alive, he thought bitterly. As if to justify that, his back pulsated once more in sheer agony. His ass hurt, too.

He staggered out of bed, and looked out the door. He could see Peter in a deep sleep in the next room. Not a bad place, he thought. At all. He quietly shut the door, ready to put out some of the agony. The light was really dim, almost nonexistant. He wanted to leave it like that. The more light on, the quicker Peter would be to notice. Peter would see him injecting himself, and Peter would tell Weaver. Or Greene. Or even Anspaugh. Then, it would all be over. He thought maybe, just maybe his denial was working.

Reaching into his overnight bag, he wanted to turn the light on. Badly. He couldnt see a damn thing. But he could make out the shape of the sharp, slick syringe. He carefully grabbed it. Then he grabbed the other. He squinted, trying to make out which one was Fentanyl and which one was morphine. He didnt want to have to use the morphine, but his pain had been so bad, he took it just in case. Just a little. Nothing stupid, he knew the repercussions of screwing up with painkillers. You wanna end up like Chase?, a voice in his head said loudly. His back hurt too much to think about the consequences, so he felt the first syringe, tapped his wrist, and plunged the fentanyl into his wrist. He heard a rustling noise. Benton, he thought. Oh lord, not Benton. He realized it was just a car driving by. His thoughts drifted off, to going back to plan. His plan would occur if the ER staff decided to fire him and get him help. Instead of that, having to deal with the embarrassment of lying about his addiction, he'd commit...suicide...he could barely say the word. But not because he was scared. He just...didnt think it would come to this. But he'd inject his extra syringe of morphine tomorrow. He was positive they were going to fire him. Then that'd work. He then realized the syringe had been in too long. But he hadnt seen how much he'd injected. He estimated about 1/2 the syringe, one full dose of Fentanyl. He closed the syringe. In a daze, he went for the morphine. He had never taken it before-in his life, even when he got into an accident on the wrestling team, and   the nurse insisted he take morphine tablets. Well, there's a first time for everything, he thought bitterly. The only thought that paralyzed him quickly-the one second-was that he could, in a weird circumstance, have an allergic reaction. He knew from patients and countless surgeries how lethal morphine could be. It's not like you wanna die tonight, he thought grimly. He hesitated. But his pain worsened, even with the fentanyl. I need it. I really do, he thought. The back pain left hmi near tears that he thought he had cried already. Oh, fuck, I need the morphine. His brain was ripped in half, to take it, to not take it. I really dont want to do anything stupid. I just need the pain to go away. I dont care any more. So Im an addict. Part of me died on Valentine's Day. Most of me did. All that's left of me is the agony and flashbacks. Of course Im an addict. I need it to function. I need my painkillers, he thought angrily as he injected the morphine into his wrist. I really dont want anything dumb to happen. Please let me be ok, I just want this pain to go away so I can sleep. Almost in a trance, he started to feel nauseous. Horribly nauseous. Nausea almsot as bad as that night on the operating table, when he was pissing blood. His head seemed to float off. OH JESUS! he thought frantically. No, please, please let me be ok. He groaned. While his back pain had dissappeared to the extent, his head throbbed. His heart was racing once again, but this time, everything seemed worse. The bed posts multiplied, as everything went in slow motion. Then everything went black, as he toppled backward off the bed.