No Way Ch2

Summary: Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decided to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can’t stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he’s the only one who can help her. Author’s Note: I’m really happy…I got a review within 24 hours of posting this! That’s never happened before!! :D So thank you to geekchic79! Also, this chapter is a bit shorter…I’m hoping I can keep the length better as the story goes on. But I haven’t been all that inspired recently…sorry. So it became routine—I’d hang with Cyn all day, and then about nine or ten I’d go upstairs and hang with Roger. I ignored Cohen the whole time, and he ignored me. It worked. Roger and I worked a lot on the song…well, on the guitar part. I mostly sang while he plucked away at the strings, trying to get something done. Most of the time we just talked. I didn’t think Cyn minded…until I came in at about two AM one night —earlier than before. Cyn was still up, but probably drunk as a fucking skunk. “Hey, Cyn,” I said, shrugging off my coat. Cyn looked…pretty fucking angry. “Hey,” she said—but her voice was definitely angry. “What’s up your ass?” I snickered, heading to the sofa. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. But her eyes were boring holes into me. I rolled my eyes. “Then cut the death glare, Cyn,” I muttered. “What, were we out of Absolut?” She just snorted. “Yeah, right.” I turned to face her, almost glaring—didn’t want to piss her off immediately. “Ok, spill. Something’s up your ass, and I wanna know what it is.” “Maybe it’s all the fucking time you spend upstairs,” Cyn snarled. “Do I not exist? Am I just your provider now, Ellen?” Ouch—she’d switched to Ellen. Cyn hadn’t called me Ellen since we were in fucking high school. “What the fuck is your problem, Cyn? You’re always passed out drunk when I go up anyway!” “Fuck off! That’s not the point!” She held up my needle and syringe. “You’ve been fucking wasting your share! The armrest is fucking full of it! My fucking money went into this, Ellen—my fucking money! If you don’t wanna use, stop fucking putting it in the armrest!” I glared at her. “Oh, so that’s it? Fuck, Cyn. Roger has AIDS! I don’t wanna get AIDS! And I don’t want you to fucking get AIDS!” I didn’t bother to mention that I hadn’t wasted it all…I’d been using enough to keep myself from getting really sick, at least. “I’m not fucking gonna get AIDS!” she screamed back. “We’ve both tested negative four times-” “Roger tested negative fourteen times, Cyn! Fourteen fucking times! And he still got AIDS!” I snapped. Cyn threw the syringe to the ground. “I don’t fucking care! It’s my own fucking business if I want to fuck up my life with fucking heroin, and not yours!” “But it is my business!” I yelled. “You’re my friend, Cyn! My fucking friend! I have to help you!” I was struck by how this was exactly what Roger and Cohen had said to me—except I’d listened…at least to Roger. But Cyn wasn’t listening. She didn’t hear how much fucking danger her life was in.

Cyn looked ready to throw something at me. “Well, if being friends means you get to fuck with my life, then let’s just not be friends anymore,” she said coldly. I didn’t move. I didn’t scream at her. I just stared. I couldn’t do anything but stare at the motherfucking bitch. “Well,” I said, clenching my fists, “fine. I’ll get my stuff and go, then.” So I did just that—I packed up all my stuff, stealing a few of her shirts that I liked most, and made for the front door. “Hold it,” said Cyn. She was on the couch watching a movie—probably a porno. I rounded on her. “What the fuck do you want?” I snarled. Without looking up, she said, “Use the fire escape. I don’t want you using my door again.” That was the final straw. I walked right up to her and slapped her in her fucking face before going out the front door. I heard Cyn yelling behind me, but I didn’t stop walking until I was outside. I then stopped, taking deep breaths and trying to stop the weird rushing noise in my ears. “Ok,” I said to myself. “So Cyn kicked you out. She’s probably high—she’ll call you tomorrow, and say she’s sorry.” But then I laughed. “Yeah, right.” “Hey, Ells! Where’re you going?” I turned to see Roger grinning at me from the fire escape. I shrugged, trying to keep my anger away—I wasn’t angry at Roger. “Eh, Cyn kicked me out,” I said. Roger frowned. “Why?” I gritted my teeth, staring at the ground. “Well, um…I was…” I shrugged again. “Trying to quit,” I said finally. “And now I’m just gonna have to take the step and really quit. I don’t have enough money.” Roger was looking down at me, not frowning as much as before. “Look, Ells… you live by yourself, right?” “Yeah…so?” I challenged. “So, maybe you’d wanna stay in the loft.” He smiled. “I know how to help you, Ells. Withdrawal isn’t fun—I’ve been through it, and I helped Mimi through it.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Um…wow. Alright. Thanks, Rog.” At first it wasn’t more than a flu…at least, it felt like it. I was sick and achy, but no more than in a flu. But then it got worse—I couldn’t think of anything except heroin. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and searching for some, knocking over a lamp and a table in the process. Cohen, whose room was right next to mine, came running in. “Ellen, what the-” I grabbed his arms. “Please,” I sobbed. “I need it!” When he didn’t respond I shoved him away and stormed out of the room, continuing my frantic search in the main room. Roger woke up then. “Ells, stop it,” he said firmly. I ducked around the sofa, away from him. I was sure I was going to throw up. “Fuck, Roger…you’ve got to have-” Roger quickly grabbed my wrists and forced me to sit on the sofa. I thrashed and kicked, but he wouldn’t let me go. “Let me go!” I screamed. “Just fucking let me go!” “Ells, it’s for your own good,” said Roger gently. I wouldn’t let his voice soothe me, no matter how hard he tried. I fucking needed it—didn’t they understand? “Don’t fucking tell me that!” I snarled. “If it’s for my own good, then why am I so fucking sick?” “Because your body is getting rid of all the heroin,” explained Cohen from across the room.

But that was the wrong thing to say. “I don’t fucking wanna get rid of it!” I screamed at him. I then tore free from Roger and jumped Cohen. I don’t remember what I did—but Roger told me that I beat the shit out of Cohen, almost sending him to the fucking hospital. When he told me, I knew somewhere in the back of my head that I should be angry at myself, but I couldn’t be. “Well, it’s his fucking fault,” I said. “He wanted to throw all my shit away.” Roger grabbed my hands, shaking his head. “Ells, you have to remember… we’re helping you. You wanted to get clean, right?” I stared at the poster-covered wall for a moment. Had I wanted this? To be sick…to fuck myself up like this? But…wasn’t I fucking myself up with drugs? No, they helped me get rid of this sickness…or were they causing it? I groaned as a headache pounded behind my eyes. It was all too confusing…maybe the drugs would help me understand. I’d felt better after using, right? Wait, that wasn’t right… they hurt me…I think. Roger wanted to help, that was why I was still here, in the loft. Hadn’t Cyn helped? When I came to her door, hadn’t she helped me? Hadn’t we helped each other, slowly becoming friends, finding each other on the street night after night, taking each other home…but had she helped because she knew she should, or because she was my friend…or because she felt obligated to after I helped her? Shit…it was all too much. I couldn’t think straight. Suddenly the floor was a hell of a lot closer than before. I felt something cool and hard underneath my cheek, and let my eyes shut. “Ells…Ells, come on,” someone said. I groaned and opened my eyes. Roger’s face swum in my vision, but my stomach flipped over—I had to sit up quickly so I could throw up all over the floor. “Shit!” someone cried. I almost grinned between heaving—it was Cohen. I’d probably thrown up all over his shoes or something. I wiped my mouth, spat, and curled up against the sofa, closing my eyes. I didn’t care that I was cold, sick to my stomach, or probably laying in my own vomit —I just wanted to sleep. “Ells…come on,” said Roger gently. I shoved his hands away, but he pushed mine away and picked me up. He was warm, but I didn’t like the movement: it made my stomach turn. But somehow I managed not to throw up, and he got me to the bed. He pulled the covers up around me, and said quietly, “Just sleep, Ells. If you need anything, Mark and I are in the front, ok?” I nodded. The covers were a nice change from the hard floor, and I couldn’t make myself open my eyes. But I woke up later, my body aching and my mind consumed with the desire for heroin. It was all I could think of—my body was wracked with chills and my stomach was churning, but I couldn’t worry about how moving might make me throw up. I just knew I needed my fix, and there was only one place I could get it—Cyn’s loft. I glanced at the clock: it read four-twenty-nine. I knew it was late, but I didn’t fucking care. I slipped out of the loft, running down the stairs. I got to Cyn’s door and slumped against it, my knees shaking too much to hold me up. “What are you doing?” I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—Cohen. “What do you want?” I groaned.

“To find out what you’re doing,” he replied, leaning against the wall and looking at me. I turned to look at him. “Why do you fucking care?” I snapped. “Why me, Cohen?” Cohen sighed. “Didn’t I already explain this?” he grumbled. “Humor me,” I snarled. “And no, you didn’t.” He took his fucking time before answering. “Because…you’re the only person who gave me—us—a chance to help you. Because out of all the addicts in New York you came to us, and let us help you.” That actually broke through to me somehow—through my desire, I actually heard him. Had I really fucking presented myself to them? Fuck. I didn’t want help— I just wanted my fix.