ER, sixth season finale, Carter/Benton.
APNEA
"They tell you that I'm some kind of junkie, and you believe them?"
"Carter,
you want to fight, that's cool, man, but either way, you're
getting your
ass in that van."
I'M
NOT MUCH of a man right now. I can feel the drug fading, can feel my
eyes
contract and my skin shrink and my stomach clench as it pulls at my
veins
for more relief. It's not coming. Not like that.
I'm
breathing recycled air from the vents and his is glancing off my
shoulder
with each sleeping rise and fall of the chest and when we hit a
pocket of
turbulence somewhere over St. Louis it rattles him awake and I
am instantly,
selfishly, childishly glad to have his attention again.
"Okay?"
he sputters, half-awake, and I think he's talking about how I'm
doing and
I'm still stuck on how rarely he calls me by my name.
I
nod but not convincingly and he grabs my thigh, harder than I think he
means
to. He doesn't say anything. The guy behind us snores
irregularly.
Apnea. I stare out into the darkness, wishing it was like
the space
shuttle and we could see stars. This is the kind of thing that
ruins careers,
and I never needed this job but if he told me now it
meant I'd never work
with him again I might try the emergency exit.
"John,"
he says, almost just an exhalation, like he's mouthing the words
for his
son, and he maneuvers an arm around me in the wedge of space.
The plane bucks
again and he hiccups a little into my neck, like maybe
he's scared. I'm scared.
I'm terrified of this place, of who I'll be
when I come back. I know
I'll open my mouth and sound like I think it's
all easy.
The
first time I did mouth-to-mouth I was sixteen. This time, this
passage
of air from body to body means more. My kidneys weep and he
falls into dreams
again. I listen to his breath until we land.
END.