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- 01/06/2016
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Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
My LIfe: In Pieces - 4. The Hospital and The Chaplain
The Hospital and The Chaplain
Jeff tapped the needle, grinned and handed it to me. “Here, it’s good stuff. You will float, baby-boy.”
I held out me left arm and he tied the rubber tubing around my bicep, I made fists until the vein popped in my forearm. Holding the needle facing me, I pushed it against my skin until it slid in. I pulled back the plunger a little and pulled in some blood.
Jeff pulled off the tubing and I slowly pushed the plunger in a little, then pulled back the plunger again, drawing more blood and pushed the contents of the barrel into my arm, my body and – oh fuck – my brain. That is called a rush. Heroin is an amazing ride; everything is wonderful, beautiful but that feeling is harder to obtain the more you use, depending on the strength of the drug. That’s why it’s so bad; you spend a lot of time trying to get back that good feeling.
This stuff today, well it is top quality and I will be in bliss for several hours.
Jeff gets me to my feet and tells me we have a special job today.
I whine to him about that, as it is difficult to orgasm when you use heroin, but you can go for hours. Jeff says that’s okay, that my ‘employers’ want me to last – a long time. Too high to care really, I let him help me dress and then put on my jacket. He pulled me out the door and onto a streetcar.
If you stop doing anything when you’re high on smack, you have a tendency to nod off. I did while we were on the streetcar; I didn’t know where we were going.
We got somewhere and Jeff pulled me off the streetcar. I was told later it was an industrial area, but at the time I was still very high and happy, and didn’t care.
He led me inside a building, where there was a camera set-up and four guys waiting.
Jeff told me I was there to do what they told me, some kind of kinky sex thing they wanted to film. He told me to be good and these guys would pay us a load of money. He said he’d come back for me. Then left me there.
Two of the guys would be with me, and the other two handling the camera and stuff. They knew I was high, but we smoked some crack as well. After that I was flying. I don’t really remember what happened but I know there was sex, a lot of it. Doctors said they found seminal fluid with the DNA of four different men.
Police later told me they thought these men were filming a snuff film, or something similar. They used me, tore me up inside so badly I need bowel surgery, so they gave me a temporary colostomy, and I developed some severe infections. I had broken ribs front and back, a punctured lung, a broken cheekbone, broken collarbone and a pretty bad head injury.
I’d lost a lot of blood by the time a security guard found me, the next day sometime. I barely remember the ambulance guys talking to me; I was in pretty bad shape, and in a lot of pain.
It was several weeks before they let me wake up, the doctors explained that they’d kept me sedated after the surgery because I’d have been very uncomfortable, going through withdrawal as well as all my injuries.
I still was uncomfortable, and I couldn’t get up, or move very well without help. Eating was difficult; I mainly wanted to sleep and I was very withdrawn. I wanted to see no one and spoke as little as possible.
The nurses tried everything to get me to talk, as did the police. They knew who I was because I’d been arrested several times, but I knew nothing about the guys who had hurt me. The cops knew I was with Jeff, but they told me they couldn’t find him.
I didn’t care, I was hurting, alone, and I’d refuse to eat most meals. The doctors said they’d ‘take steps’ and force me to, so I ate a little bit at each meal just to keep them off my back.
It was at this time I started to get a visitor; a man who introduced himself as the hospital chaplain. I guess he was about sixty, he was about six feet tall, and he said his name was Paul.
He came everyday around 11:00 a.m. He used to just talk to me, didn’t ask me things, he just talked. He’d tell me about the news or where he’d been on the weekend; he always said hello and goodbye to me.
One day Paul said, “You know, I’m running out of stories. Maybe I’ll read to you. Would you like that?”
He waited for a reply, but he didn’t get one. So he said, “Well then, if you won’t tell me what book you’d like, I’ll pick the Bible. It’s full of good stories.”
I just closed my eyes and wished he’d go away.
And he read the Bible to me. One day I wasn’t doing very well, I was in a lot of pain – I got really bad headaches – and whatever story Paul was reading got to me and I couldn’t stop the tears. And I remember he got up and did what mums do to their sick kids. You know how they put their cool hands on your forehead and just push your hair back … it’s a feeling you never forget.
Then he said, “Tim, you have to let someone in. Let someone help you. I can help, if you’ll let me.”
He smiled down at me then and said he’d see me tomorrow, but he gave me his card. “The underlined number is my mobile; call me if you need me. And I mean anytime, Tim.”
Paul left and I think I must have cried for an hour, not loudly but silently, it was like all the years of pain and horror were leaking out. And I asked myself why. Why after all these years of begging silently for someone to help me, for someone to get me out of the life I was leading, could I not let Paul do that? Why could I not tell him, ask him, and say yes, please help me?
I guess I’d been in the hospital about six weeks, when I finally told him my story. Paul came in at his usual time, with his Bible. He sat down and opened it and was ready to start when he looked at me. I was sat up as well as possible in my bed. Paul had nice hazel eyes and he looked at me carefully.
“Something’s different, Tim.” He closed his Bible and put it on the floor next to him. “Come on son, tell me. I’ll listen.”
So I did; for the next couple of hours, I talked. I told him all of it, everything.
And when I cried, he sat with me and held me, and I clung to him, never wanting to let go. After I’d calmed down some, he talked to me, reminding me how lucky I’d been to have my mother. He settled me into bed and covered me and I fell asleep listening to him tell me how he could help me.
I had another surgery to remove the temporary colostomy. Paul said once I was going to be discharged, he’d found a place for me to live and he said he’d help me find a job. I was twenty-two.
After my discharge Paul introduced me to Leo, who was also an ex-prostitute. I lived with Leo for a year while I worked in a coffee shop and returned to school. Leo was never a friend; I just helped him pay rent, but it worked as we both had issues of our own. We both needed to live somewhere drug-free.
I also worked at the men’s mission that Paul helped run, in an effort to help other people who were lost and in pain. They didn’t see my scars and I was comfortable with them. I was happy to sit with them and talk.
During this time I continued to cut when things got bad, though less often. I was also addicted to gay porn too. I worked with my doctor to wean myself off both, though I would continue to cut occasionally for some time.
I found it hard to have a real boss and to keep regular hours, but I was determined to keep this job and finish school. After a year with Leo, I moved into a small room on my own. I knew I could stay clean. I liked my routine now; I was settled in it and I was also getting comfortable with me.
It took me four years to finish high school. I took a course in cooking as well because I was determined not to eat junk and garbage again. I’d learned a lot from my mum, but I enjoyed the classes. It felt good to be able to cook for myself and I had enough confidence to tackle things like bread baking and replicating my mum’s shepherd pie and stuffing for a turkey.
During these years, I went once to find Jeff and I did. We talked and I tried to convince him to come with me, to let him help me but he wouldn’t. He told me to go on with my life. Later, I found out he’d taken his own life. And just recently I‘ve found out that he was actually the guy who had sold me to the four guys that day. That was why the police couldn’t find him; he’d taken the money and run. But he eventually returned ‘home’ when the money had run out.
I don’t blame him or hate him. He had a much worse life, and well, he did the best he could for me. In the end, the lure of money and the drugs he needed were bigger that his … huh, bigger than his love for me. Because I think he did love me on some level. There’s a part of this story about Jeff.
When I was 26 my life changed in a way I never thought it would. I met a wonderful man, who wouldn’t take no for an answer. We are going into our 6th year of a good marriage. There have been ups and downs, but we work it out.
You can read more about Michael in a previous story I posted called Michael and Me.
Any errors are mine.
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Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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