Neil Donovan is (incharge) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-06-25 16:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *narrative, neil donovan |
gotham, narrative
Who: Neil
What: Narrative.
Where: A bar in Gotham.
When: After this & this.
Warnings/Rating: Some mentions of alcoholism.
Step One.
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Neil ended up in Gotham. He couldn't stay in his door, he felt like he was suffocating. Run, run, hide, like the coward that he was. Gotham was dark, dingy, it was dangerous for the old crime boss but he really wasn't thinking about that—he wouldn't have cared even if he was.
Two: we came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
A bar was the last place he needed to be. But his conversation with Cris, what happened with Sam, even the voicemail (cowardly) left for Louis—it all left him rattled. Once, his life had been stable. He'd been in control. But ever since the hotel had pulled him back in everything had been out of whack. And now, looking at himself in the mirror over the bar, he realized he hadn't changed. All the progress he thought he'd made, it was a lie.
Three: we made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Mere deserved better. Sam deserved better. Louis, Ash, his nephew, they all deserved better too.
Four: we made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
"Whiskey. No ice." The bartender saw him as just another customer in a run-down bar, not a man ready to throw away six years of sobriety. No one knew him here. No one cared. There was safety in anonymity; Neil liked that.
Five: we admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Everything Cris said was true. He was a coward, a son of a bitch, the worst kind of person. He'd treated Sam horribly, led her on and fucked her up; it was his fault, her insecurity. His fault for never telling her he loved her. For choosing booze over her and everything else in his life. And now, he was supposed to be better, but he was hurting her all over again. He shouldn't have gone to the motel. He shouldn't have told her we can't. And Mere—his girlfriend. The woman he claimed to love, look how he treated her. Was it any wonder she lashed out?
Six: we were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Seven: we humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how he was supposed to go home, how he was supposed to face Louis.
What he wanted to was get drunk. And then, hide. In a door, somewhere no one would ever find him. Where he could just disappear.
Eight: we made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
Nine: we made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
That was what cowards did. Neil couldn't be strong, he couldn't be the person he needed to be. All those A.A. meetings, the steps, trying, trying, but it was wasted on someone like him. Pathetic.
The glass was set down in front of him. The sharp scent of booze, strong, so familiar, wafted up, and he inhaled. He could taste it.
Ten: we continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
He picked up the glass.
Eleven: we sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
This would only make things worse, but he didn't (want to) care.
Twelve: having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
Neil closed his eyes. He could see the path set before him. One drink would lead to two, three, four. More. He'd get drunk. Wake up hungover who the hell knew where. And maybe no one would find out, not at first, but they would. Eventually. Because it would keep happening, over.
And over.
And over.
His family would hate him. His friends would abandon him. He'd be hurting them, all of them, and this time it would be unforgivable.
He set the glass down with a clatter and pushed away from the bar. No. No. No.
"I can't."
Again, he ran, but this time it was to seek safety and not oblivion. Out of Gotham, and elsewhere. Somewhere without temptation—or, at least, less of it.