Rock Bottom (Bullet) (2 page)

Chapter Two

“I KNOW THIS is difficult, Mr. Richards, but I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

Ethan Richards rested his forehead on his hand.  He felt like he’d just been pummeled by a barrage of questions and he didn’t have an answer for any of them.  He finally rubbed his forehead and sat up straighter, running his hand through his reddish-brown hair.
  It didn’t help that the guy was calling him
Mister
.  “Ethan, please.”  He was sure it was a respect thing, but Ethan didn’t deserve this guy’s respect.  He didn’t deserve anyone’s respect.

“Okay,
Ethan
.  Does that help?”

“I guess.”  Ethan examined his psychiatrist through his light green eyes.  This guy wanted Ethan to trust him.  On the one hand, Ethan knew he could.  After all, this guy was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.  Ethan knew that.  But it wasn’t just that.  It would involve opening up a part of himself he’d never shared with anyone, a part of himself he even tried to hide from himself.  Still…he knew he’d have to do it eventually.  He’
d been fighting his demons for too long.  At one time, he’d thought confronting his father would help him get over a lot of shit from his childhood.  Instead, it just made it worse.  His father had laughed at him, had made him feel like even less of a man than he already had.  And then, before he could try again, his father died after trying to reach out to him.  At first, Ethan had felt like his father’s death was a good thing, a closure of sorts, but it wasn’t.  He realized afterward that Burt Richards’s death instead meant that Ethan would
never
have closure, and it ate him up inside.

Booze and various pharmaceuticals (and other poisons) had helped him cope for a long time, but even he knew the jig was up.  He’d truly hit bottom and it was time to get professional help.
  The first thing he’d done was hire an assistant—a woman older than his mother, one with a family and as straight-laced as they come.  He had her help him clean out his apartment for her first job while he went into rehab.  Before he got out, he had her find him the best psychiatrist she could find and set him up this appointment.  He stayed in rehab lots longer than he’d really needed to, but he was afraid to leave.

So, even though he knew meeting with the shrink was an important move and probably vital to his tenuous sobriety, it didn’t mean it was going to be easy for him to spill his blood and guts.  No, it was probably going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done.  Ethan wasn’t a talker—he’d told more to his ex-wife Valerie and his best friend Brad, the man who was like his brother, and even they had no fucking clue.

It didn’t help that Ethan had a deeper, darker secret.

He was pretty fucking sure he was crazy.

Well, maybe
crazy
wasn’t the right word, but he was scared shitless to tell anyone.  What would people think if they knew his head was as truly fucked up as he imagined it was?  He knew.  They’d lock his ass away for good.

The biggest problem was that, aside from the escape chemicals brought him, music was his only release from the pain he felt every day.  Only music could make him feel whole.  He suspected Valerie and Brad knew that.  Oh, hell, the world knew it.  How many times over the years had he heard he “got lost in” his guitar?  Val used to get so pissed at him, accusing him of loving his guitar more than he loved her.

And, maybe to a degree, it was true.  That guitar could take his mind off everything.  Val didn’t have that power.  No one did.

He inhaled deeply.  So…how did he tell the shrink what he was thinking?  Or should he keep all this shit to himself?

“Fuck, man.  I don’t even know where to start.”  Yes, Ethan had chosen his words carefully.  He dropped the biggest motherfucker of all cusswords.  If the shrink couldn’t stand his mouth, they’d have to part ways.  Ethan didn’t plan to change his language to avoid offending someone, especially someone who was asking to hear all his dark and dirty secrets.  When the shrink didn’t even flinch, Ethan felt a small victory.  Okay, it might not work…but they were at least on the right track.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?”

That one hit him like an arrow between the eyes.  The beginning?  Where the fuck was the beginning?  “It’s my whole goddamned life.  There is no start.”

Dr. Thomas nodded his head and jotted something on his notepad.  “Okay, then just tell me about life right now.  Would that be a good place to begin?”

Ethan nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess.”  Still…he couldn’t imagine explaining life today without some sort of prologue to his story.  “Do you follow music news at all?”

“Not intentionally.  No offense.”

Ethan actually chuckled.  “None taken.  Metal’s not everyone’s thing and we’re definitely not top forty.”

“Oh, I’ve
heard
of your band.  Don’t get me wrong.”

Ethan couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.  Somehow it was more satisfying having this guy who was an M.D. tell him he’d heard of his music than
having a screaming fan tell him she wanted to suck his cock just because he was in her favorite band.  But his ego wasn’t helping him get to the heart of the matter.  So he nodded again and continued.  “Well, I’ve…uh…struggled with addiction for a long time now, and recently I went into rehab again.  You might already know that.  I want this to be the
last
time I go for rehab, but I gotta tell you—the pull some things have on me is strong and it scares the shit out of me that I’ll be shooting up again or snorting or inhaling before I know it.  I’m killing myself, doc.”  He was going to avoid talking about the crazy shit…for now at least.

“What do these things do for you?”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Thomas adjusted in his chair a little, but his demeanor remained calm, his voice soft. 
“Why do you drink until you’re in a stupor, for instance, instead of not?  What makes you reach for the bottle?”

Oh…the shrink wasn’t fucking around.  He wanted to get down to brass tacks right away.  Ethan let out a breath.  He didn’t know that he was ready for that yet…not that he had much of a choice.  He was paying this guy—and paying him well—to help him solve his problems.  He’d be a shyster if he was just trying to prolong the process needlessly.
  But what would unadulterated honesty hurt?  He’d hidden so much from Val, not wanting her to see him as weak or helpless.  Same with Brad.  For some reason, he couldn’t let them see him as vulnerable.  But this guy…well, Ethan was paying the shrink to not give a shit.  He was paying him to help him in spite of any perceived weaknesses.

Still…he’d protected his inner self for so long that it wasn’t a simple matter to just let go.  It was going to be difficult.  And yet he knew he needed to do it, needed it desperately, because holding on was killing him.

So he decided right then and there that he was going to be as honest as he could possibly manage.  It wasn’t going to be easy, but he knew it had to be done.  He delved as deep as he could (knowing that he could go much deeper, that there were depths he hadn’t seen since childhood), looking for an answer to Thomas’s question.  “God…lots of things.  Insecurity, fear, anger.”

Thomas nodded.  “It’s emotional, yes, but can you tell me any specific instances?  Is there some specific time you can think of recently that sent you spiraling out of control?”

No thinking, Ethan.  Just fucking do it.  Talk, man.  Talk.  He gritted his teeth.  He felt like he was going to vomit just thinking about it, but he was going to do it.  As honest as he could get.  “Well, it started a while back, actually, before my kid was born.  It was right before my band broke big.  My dad died.  I hated my dad, and part of me was glad he died.  But, for some stupid reason, it hurt too.  Makes no sense.  I felt like there were things I should have said, should have done, but really the bastard deserves to rot in hell.”  The shrink looked at Ethan, not judging him, not saying a word, his brown eyes simply urging Ethan to continue.  Somehow, Ethan found it comforting.  “But I got my shit together, right?  I had a band and we’d finally made it big.  We had to record a CD and then hit the road.  My dream had finally come true.  So I managed to pull it together for a while.”

“Did you stop drinking and using?”

“Not entirely, no.  I never did, even when I told everyone else I had.  I never stopped entirely.  I just got good at hiding it and keeping my shit together.  I got better about controlling when and where and how I used, but no.  I never stopped all the way.  Anyway, I was in a controlled period for a while until we went on tour and then it was balls out.  Holy fucking shit.  Anything and everything I could ever want:  women—lots of them, drugs of every flavor, booze flowing like water.  And when I say
drugs
, I’m talking premium, the best quality, not common cheap street shit.  High quality, strong stuff too.  Premium highs.  God, it was like the world was being handed to me on a silver platter, and I just lapped it up.

“But I’m sure you already know…no matter how much I took, I couldn’t completely bury it all.  It was still there, but the booze, the drugs, the girls…they made it all quieter, you know? 
Easier to manage.  It helped make me a little numb.

“And then the wife…well, she got pregnant. 
Holy shit.  Talk about a lot of fucking responsibility.  And I tried to clean up my act. I really tried.  She needed me…and I let her down.  Big time.  And you’d think having something—
someone
—to live for would make it easier.  Fuck no.  It made it harder.  All of a sudden, I was an adult and I had to be a husband and a father.  Again, though…for a while, I was pretty good at hiding it all.  But then I was on tour again.  Overdosed on H.  Not the first time.  I somehow made it through the tour, and I kept thinking of Chris—my son—how he needed me, needed for me to get my shit together.

“Then something just snapped, something that had been, like, waiting in the wings, you know, just looking for the perfect moment. 
Something in my head.  It had always been there, but it had been pretty quiet, pretty dull, and it would rear its ugly head every once in a while, but a hit of coke would usually send it running.  Not this time.  It was heavy.  Jesus, it was…”  He let out a long breath, suddenly tired of talking, but he pressed on.  “I guess you could call it depression, but that sounds so fucking weak, you know?  So fucking lame.  That’s what Val said it was.  But…what I’ve read about it, I think maybe she was right.  I just wanted to sleep all the time.  I wanted to die, but I didn’t have the guts to kill myself.  With H maybe.  Maybe I could do it that way…just float away on a cloud and never come back.  But I knew if I just blew my fucking brains out, Val and Chris and, hell, even Brad and the other guys would hate me for the rest of their lives.  I couldn’t give up on them, but I couldn’t make myself go on anymore.  I wasn’t doing anything anymore—wasn’t writing, that’s for damn sure, and I wasn’t doing anything else.  I wasn’t hanging with my friends, wasn’t making love to my wife.  I was just eating, getting high, and sleeping.  I just wanted to go to bed and never wake up.”

His voice got quieter.  Thomas had stopped writing in his notepad, was instead just patiently looking at Ethan,
urging him with his eyes to continue.  Ethan nodded his head and then looked down at his hands.  “Anyway…one day, Val was harping on me, telling me to get out of bed.  I don’t even remember half the shit I said to her, but I was pissed that she wouldn’t just leave me alone, wouldn’t just leave me to die.  She was pleading with me to get out of bed, to spend time with her and my son.  And then something just snapped.  I don’t know what made me do it, but I just shoved her up against the wall and my hand started closing around her neck.  Slowly, slowly, and I just wanted to shut her up.  I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was like I was out of my mind, like I wasn’t there.”  Ethan closed his eyes, forcing himself to relive the moment.  “I was so fucking angry…but I don’t know if I was mad at her or myself.  She knew I was depressed.  She even said so.  And she was calling me out, said she wanted to help me.  I kept telling her to leave me alone and she wouldn’t.  She wanted me to spend more time with Chris.  That made me feel like shit.  I knew I’d been a shitty father, but I didn’t need the reminder.  And then she just threatened to leave and started walking to the door, and that’s when I just snapped.  I lost it.  And it was like my dad took over my body.”

When Ethan stopped talking, Thomas ran his hand over his bald head and then said, “What do you mean by that?”

Ethan gulped and opened his eyes.  Oh, God…his father was a whole other can of worms, something he didn’t really want to talk about, even though he’d already hinted at it.  But he knew he had to press forward.  He didn’t have to tell all, not today, but he did have to try to help Thomas understand.  “My dad was a bastard.  A real son of a bitch.  He abused my mom, me even, and I was glad when he left.  But…”  Ethan swallowed again. 
What the fuck?
  His eyes started stinging.  He swallowed again, forcing himself through the pain.  “But…after he left, I felt empty somehow.  And I always resented him for that…for not being a better dad, for not loving us enough to treat us right, and for leaving…even though I knew it was the best thing, the right thing to do.

“Anyway, choking Valerie, almost killing her?  That’s something I’d seen my dad do to my mom when I was a kid.
  But it was like I couldn’t stop…like I just needed her to shut the fuck up, and that was the only way to do it.  She was begging me to stop and I couldn’t.  But then she couldn’t say anything else and she started slapping me on the chest, and somehow I snapped back.