Fic: Spin Recovery, Part Seven
Dec. 3rd, 2007 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalNote: PG. Terinu and related images, characters and situations are copyright ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaypeta and used here without permission.
This was a fast scene to write. Got it completed in just one day, writing in between calls at work and after I got home tonight.
Next six days passed slowly for Rufus. Despite the prescriptions he’d been given, the nightmares continued, keeping him awake through most of the night and leaving him irritable and snappish during the day. When he did sleep it tended to be with a heavy pillow over his head, so his nightly screech of terror would be muffled. The last thing he wanted was to wake up Bethany again and face her concern. He was the older sibling, it wasn’t proper that he seemed so damned fragile to her eyes.
By the time the day of his doctor’s appointment he was ready to crawl up the walls. It had been raining for two days straight which fit the blackness of his mood. Unfortunately he couldn’t find any relief by taking long walks around the manor grounds as he’d been doing previously. Riding Bloodyjaw had been forbidden by his mother, who had been politely horrified that he’d taken the risk of riding a grass chaser in his current debilitated condition.
So it was with some relief that he finally escaped the manor house to allow Whitebrow to drive him to the clinic again. He spent the time waiting for his appointment scrolling through back issues of his Galactic Aerospace subscription on his palm comp which he hadn’t bothered reading for the past two years. He was still puzzling over why he had maintained it instead of spending his credit on more important matters, such as healthy food, when he was called into Doctor Redfur’s office again.
“So how are you feeling today, Mr. Shorttail?” she asked, once he’d sat down on his chair.
“I haven’t slept a Den Mother blessed night for a week, my screaming tends to wake up my sister and my mother is driving me madder than I already am. Does that sum it up for you?” he snapped.
“Reasonably well,” she said calmly. “Have your prescriptions had any noticeable effect?”
“None whatsoever, that I can tell. If anything, the dreams have been getting worse.”
“Ah, I should have warned you about that. Vivid dreams are a noted side effect in some patients.” She made a note. “Have you experienced any suicidal thoughts?”
“What? By the Holy Den Mother no!”
“Good. Unfortunately I’m hesitant on increasing your dosage, even though you don’t seem to be getting the full effect. Increasing it might interfere with the pain medication you’ve been taking in relation to your amputation.”
He hesitated. “I suppose I could do without the pain meds,” Rufus said finally.
Doctor Redfur frowned. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea. You’re having a difficult enough time sleeping already. Until you’re equipped with a base plate for your cybernetic arm that can override the mess of signals your nerve ends are receiving, taking away your pain medication might encourage you to use, er, alternative means of anesthesia.”
“Drinking myself unconscious, you mean?” he asked.
“Indeed.” She steepled her fingers. “Actually, that brings up another subject. I’d like to speak to you a little more about how you are coping. You’ve mentioned you’ve been experiencing stress with you family, yes?”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “You must understand, I don’t particularly want to go deep into detail about them.”
“Of course not, Mr. Shorttail.” Her use of his assumed name made him wonder just how his thin shield of anonymity could possibly hold. In theory his identity was safe behind a series of code walls in the clinic’s computer system. In practice… Well, his mother was the public face of House Brushtail, and while he hadn’t been the sort to court the newsnets that centered on the various public follies of the farmer nobility, it wouldn’t take much effort to run his image through a face recognition programs to figure out who he was.
Still, she deserved as much information as he could give her. So, hesitantly to be certain, he gave her the broad outlines. His sister and mother’s concern, the fact that he had stolen money from his family to support his addiction, his ignoble return after his accident and his promise to make amends.
“So your mother was not happy about your returning?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He ran his hand through his headfur. “It’s just… I’m a further complication, I think. She’s a very busy woman you must understand, and I’m not going to deny that I’m a large problem that just decided to plop into her lap.”
“You are her son. Perhaps you don’t give her enough credit.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t add, I am her son, but Bethany is the one that will inherit House Brushtail. My sister does not need a sibling who is going to embarrass and distract her from her duties.
“We’ll come back to that point in a later session, I think,” Doctor Redfur concluded. “There’s one final item I wanted to discuss with you. I’ve heard you swear by the Holy Den Mother more than once. Would you consider yourself a particularly religious man?”
“Well, no, not particularly. Why do you ask?” He decided not to mention the conversation he’d had in his head with the Vulpine race’s patron deity during that terrible, lonely evening aboard the Suhayar, when taking his life had seemed like such an attractive release from all of his pain. It wouldn’t do to go from being judged an addict (which was true enough) to being thought mad (though he’d admit the Quorum was still debating that one.)
Before then he’d regarded the Holy Den Mother as a hands-off sort of god, remembered warmly from the massive Harvest feasts the his mother had sponsored, where as a child he was permitted to indulge in as much food and desserts that his young belly would hold. Later it was with occasional annoyance, being obligated to stand with his mother once he’d come of age, outdoors in the early morning chill on her birthday, waiting for the sun to rise and for to complete the ritual words of submission to the Goddess before hustling back inside to eat a Blessedly warm breakfast. After he’d left home, particularly after he began his slide into drugs and degradation, he’d barely thought of her at all. Certainly he'd never regarded her as the sort to pop in and chat with lost souls.
“It's been found that those with higher than average devotion to some higher ideal often do better at reaching their goals during their treatment program,” Doctor Redfur told him.
He shook his head doubtfully. “I'm not really the religious type, Madame Physician.”
“I'm not speaking of religion, though most of my patients find solace in the Holy Den Mother in some way or form. I'm just speaking of something inherently larger than yourself, that you know you can count on to give you strength to fight your addictions when your own will falters. Some of patients find it in their families or close friends. Some find it in patriotism, membership in organized charitable societies, or alien religions. I had one vixen swear to me that she found strength in the idea that our Wise Masters would eventually return and set right all the evils in the universe... Are you all right?”
Rufus, who had bent over in a massive coughing fit as he tried to cover a gale of hysterical laughter, waved the doctor back and caught his breath. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I think I just swallowed a hair or something.” He cleared his throat noisily. “So how did this remarkably devoted vixen do?”
“She reconciled with her family, found good employment and has been clean for twelve years.”
“How encouraging.” Rufus shook his head. “I'm not sure if I'm devoted to anything. I don't have that sort of... anchor I suppose is the right word. Not yet anyway.”
“Consider what I said at least, because there will be times when the idea backsliding will be a great temptation. You must be prepared to fight the impulse with all the weapons and armor you can muster.”
I hope I find something soon, he thought to himself. At the moment, he felt like he was running through a battlefield stark naked.
TBC
chaypeta and used here without permission.This was a fast scene to write. Got it completed in just one day, writing in between calls at work and after I got home tonight.
Next six days passed slowly for Rufus. Despite the prescriptions he’d been given, the nightmares continued, keeping him awake through most of the night and leaving him irritable and snappish during the day. When he did sleep it tended to be with a heavy pillow over his head, so his nightly screech of terror would be muffled. The last thing he wanted was to wake up Bethany again and face her concern. He was the older sibling, it wasn’t proper that he seemed so damned fragile to her eyes.
By the time the day of his doctor’s appointment he was ready to crawl up the walls. It had been raining for two days straight which fit the blackness of his mood. Unfortunately he couldn’t find any relief by taking long walks around the manor grounds as he’d been doing previously. Riding Bloodyjaw had been forbidden by his mother, who had been politely horrified that he’d taken the risk of riding a grass chaser in his current debilitated condition.
So it was with some relief that he finally escaped the manor house to allow Whitebrow to drive him to the clinic again. He spent the time waiting for his appointment scrolling through back issues of his Galactic Aerospace subscription on his palm comp which he hadn’t bothered reading for the past two years. He was still puzzling over why he had maintained it instead of spending his credit on more important matters, such as healthy food, when he was called into Doctor Redfur’s office again.
“So how are you feeling today, Mr. Shorttail?” she asked, once he’d sat down on his chair.
“I haven’t slept a Den Mother blessed night for a week, my screaming tends to wake up my sister and my mother is driving me madder than I already am. Does that sum it up for you?” he snapped.
“Reasonably well,” she said calmly. “Have your prescriptions had any noticeable effect?”
“None whatsoever, that I can tell. If anything, the dreams have been getting worse.”
“Ah, I should have warned you about that. Vivid dreams are a noted side effect in some patients.” She made a note. “Have you experienced any suicidal thoughts?”
“What? By the Holy Den Mother no!”
“Good. Unfortunately I’m hesitant on increasing your dosage, even though you don’t seem to be getting the full effect. Increasing it might interfere with the pain medication you’ve been taking in relation to your amputation.”
He hesitated. “I suppose I could do without the pain meds,” Rufus said finally.
Doctor Redfur frowned. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea. You’re having a difficult enough time sleeping already. Until you’re equipped with a base plate for your cybernetic arm that can override the mess of signals your nerve ends are receiving, taking away your pain medication might encourage you to use, er, alternative means of anesthesia.”
“Drinking myself unconscious, you mean?” he asked.
“Indeed.” She steepled her fingers. “Actually, that brings up another subject. I’d like to speak to you a little more about how you are coping. You’ve mentioned you’ve been experiencing stress with you family, yes?”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “You must understand, I don’t particularly want to go deep into detail about them.”
“Of course not, Mr. Shorttail.” Her use of his assumed name made him wonder just how his thin shield of anonymity could possibly hold. In theory his identity was safe behind a series of code walls in the clinic’s computer system. In practice… Well, his mother was the public face of House Brushtail, and while he hadn’t been the sort to court the newsnets that centered on the various public follies of the farmer nobility, it wouldn’t take much effort to run his image through a face recognition programs to figure out who he was.
Still, she deserved as much information as he could give her. So, hesitantly to be certain, he gave her the broad outlines. His sister and mother’s concern, the fact that he had stolen money from his family to support his addiction, his ignoble return after his accident and his promise to make amends.
“So your mother was not happy about your returning?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He ran his hand through his headfur. “It’s just… I’m a further complication, I think. She’s a very busy woman you must understand, and I’m not going to deny that I’m a large problem that just decided to plop into her lap.”
“You are her son. Perhaps you don’t give her enough credit.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t add, I am her son, but Bethany is the one that will inherit House Brushtail. My sister does not need a sibling who is going to embarrass and distract her from her duties.
“We’ll come back to that point in a later session, I think,” Doctor Redfur concluded. “There’s one final item I wanted to discuss with you. I’ve heard you swear by the Holy Den Mother more than once. Would you consider yourself a particularly religious man?”
“Well, no, not particularly. Why do you ask?” He decided not to mention the conversation he’d had in his head with the Vulpine race’s patron deity during that terrible, lonely evening aboard the Suhayar, when taking his life had seemed like such an attractive release from all of his pain. It wouldn’t do to go from being judged an addict (which was true enough) to being thought mad (though he’d admit the Quorum was still debating that one.)
Before then he’d regarded the Holy Den Mother as a hands-off sort of god, remembered warmly from the massive Harvest feasts the his mother had sponsored, where as a child he was permitted to indulge in as much food and desserts that his young belly would hold. Later it was with occasional annoyance, being obligated to stand with his mother once he’d come of age, outdoors in the early morning chill on her birthday, waiting for the sun to rise and for to complete the ritual words of submission to the Goddess before hustling back inside to eat a Blessedly warm breakfast. After he’d left home, particularly after he began his slide into drugs and degradation, he’d barely thought of her at all. Certainly he'd never regarded her as the sort to pop in and chat with lost souls.
“It's been found that those with higher than average devotion to some higher ideal often do better at reaching their goals during their treatment program,” Doctor Redfur told him.
He shook his head doubtfully. “I'm not really the religious type, Madame Physician.”
“I'm not speaking of religion, though most of my patients find solace in the Holy Den Mother in some way or form. I'm just speaking of something inherently larger than yourself, that you know you can count on to give you strength to fight your addictions when your own will falters. Some of patients find it in their families or close friends. Some find it in patriotism, membership in organized charitable societies, or alien religions. I had one vixen swear to me that she found strength in the idea that our Wise Masters would eventually return and set right all the evils in the universe... Are you all right?”
Rufus, who had bent over in a massive coughing fit as he tried to cover a gale of hysterical laughter, waved the doctor back and caught his breath. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I think I just swallowed a hair or something.” He cleared his throat noisily. “So how did this remarkably devoted vixen do?”
“She reconciled with her family, found good employment and has been clean for twelve years.”
“How encouraging.” Rufus shook his head. “I'm not sure if I'm devoted to anything. I don't have that sort of... anchor I suppose is the right word. Not yet anyway.”
“Consider what I said at least, because there will be times when the idea backsliding will be a great temptation. You must be prepared to fight the impulse with all the weapons and armor you can muster.”
I hope I find something soon, he thought to himself. At the moment, he felt like he was running through a battlefield stark naked.
TBC
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no subject
Date: 2007-12-04 07:25 am (UTC)Sorry Rufus, guess you're stuck being the center of attention for now. :p