(auth's background note: Gwen just sneaked out of drug rehab for a coupla hours because he was uncooperative with the program. more details later.)
I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping that Dillian recognized where we were. But he only stared out the window, bloodshot eyes looking at nothing.
Half dragging, half supporting him out of the car, I led him to the second level of the building. Leaving him propped against the wall, mumbling about 'needing a fix' and scratching furiously at his neck, I turned my back on him and fiddled with the door lock, all the while trying to swallow a huge lump in my throat.
Prodding the door open, I gently shoved him into the room. Caught by surprise, and his nervous system clogged up with all those drugs, he lost his balance and fell onto his knees. Ignoring his muttered curses, I stalked over to the light switches and waited for him to quiet down before flicking them on.
It took him a while to get used to the light, and more time after to realise what he was looking at.
Parquet flooring, lacquered and smooth, but still rough enough to provide grip; A mirror that stretched from wall to wall, floor to ceiling; and at one end of the room, set into stlyish cabinets, the sound system's control center.
It was a plain and simple room, yet it was enough to knock Dillian into a stunned silence. It was a dance studio. Our dance studio. The one that we spent so much time and effort trying to create.
Our dream, realised.
But a realised dream meant nothing if the dreamers were not around to enjoy it, and seeing the empty studio, being in it, Dillian realised all that.
He struggled to his feet, as I watched silently from my position beside the door. I know not how long we stood at our respective positions, his stare alternating between the mirror, floor and his feet; my stare centered on him.
Eventually, though, his involuntary shivers stopped, his sniffles lessened, and he stood up straighter as he took a tentative step forward. It was a wobbly step, and he nearly lost his balance, but as he recovered, he glanced back at me and gave a weak smile. He was still awfully pale, and weaker than a baby, but he was most definately feeling better than an hour ago.
He tried to pace the width of the studio, but fell, before he even got to the halfway mark. I started forward, worried that he might have injured himself, but he waved me away and tried again to stand.
Again and again, he fell back down before he even got halfway off the ground. It was no good. His legs could not support his weight, and his breathing became more laboured. Having danced with him as his partner for such a long time, I could tell that he was getting extremely fustrated, and if left alone, would push himself too far, till the time came when he just gave up.
I could not bear to watch this anymore, I brought him here in hopes of raising his sprits, reigniting his desire to recover, the flame to dance again. But all I managed to do was to raise him out of his drug induced haze, and drop him into a pit deeper than the one he was in. Some friend I was.
I rushed forward and tried to calm him down, feeling guilty at the sight of his tears. He looked at me with the visage of one who has given up all hope and spoke his first words in a month. The same words he said the last time he spoke.
" I'll never be able to dance again, Gwen. "
(auth's note: its 2 in the morning. my brain ceased to function 4 hours ago. pardon the quality of writing.)
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1 comment:
Thanks for writing this.
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