Dylan Hayes (pushme) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-07-01 00:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | dylan hayes, methadone |
Who: Dylan Hayes and Methadone
What: Meeting
When: Thursday afternoon
Where: The Methadone Treatment Clinic at the Rehabilitation Center of Mount Sinai Hospital
Dylan had been sitting in a room waiting for a doctor to see him for about ten minutes before he looked up from picking at his nails to observe the walls around him. The walls were white, and there was a magazine rack next to the door. There was a small counter in the opposite corner from him with a silver sink and glass cylinders with silver lids containing all manners of medical tools; tongue depressors, cotton swabs, and those little black cones for the thing the doctor would use to look up his nose and in his ears. There was also a bottle of iodine and an orange plastic box for used needles. Dylan scratched at his wrist and quickly averted his eyes from the needles, and they flickered down to the floor - gray tile with silver lines between them. It was spotless, definitely cleaner than anywhere he'd been in the past few months, probably the cleanest he had seen in the past few years. It was sparse and small and a little uncomfortable, and Dylan had to look down at his hands to remind himself that he was here for a good reason.
'Getting better' had been an alien concept to him in the weeks following Dave's death, and perhaps even more so since he had moved in with GHB. The drugs were constant, the sex was dirty, the work was dangerous and illegal, and he wasn't feeling any better. It had been one of those warm storms in early spring that had prompted him to spend a night at a homeless shelter. The food had been slightly better than usual, and the people who worked there were - nice. Over the next month and a half, his visits there had become more and more frequent, his nights spent there whether it was raining or not. He had begun talking to a woman named Mary who had once worked at a rehab clinic, and one afternoon when she saw the scars on the inside of Dylan's arms, she had mentioned (if only in passing), a clinic at a hospital that specialized in helping people with his problem - or, one of his problems.
And so he was here, at the Methadone Treatment Clinic, potentially to do something he had always told himself that he would never do - rehab. But just for the smack, he told himself, just to stop the itches and the shakes late at night, the headaches and the nausea. He could get help for this and stay on the cigarettes and the liquid, he would be fine. It would all be fine. His eyes flicked up to the magazine rack; Parenting magazine, Better Homes, East Coast Living, Us Weekly, and Highlights for kids. Nothing he was particularly interested, shockingly. Now he wished he had brought a notebook or something. He hadn't been in a real doctor's office in a long time, but he had waited a half an hour in the waiting room, and now it seemed that he had been taken to an even smaller waiting room. At least he was alone. There had been a woman who looked too much like a skeleton for comfort thumbing through Vogue, probably comparing herself to the models. Maybe his perception of time was off, but it seemed like he had been waiting for a long time. Oh well. It wasn't like he had anywhere better to be. He sucked in his left cheek and swung his skinny legs, lightly tapping his heels one after the other against the table in an almost childish manner.