Silas shrugged at the question and dropped the chair back to all four legs. “Not picky when it comes to beer, man,” he replied. “Whatever you find is cool with me.” Civilization wasn’t the same, so they were probably just lucky that they could still find anything at all. A couple more years and it’d probably be a different story. Nothing lasted forever.
Maybe it was a desire to just get on with it that had him blurting things out so quickly, but it wasn’t like he as analyzing his own motivations. “I know I’m not solely to blame,” he responded. “But the shit they’re saying to me, it’s the same old shit I told myself the first time around. That it wasn’t my fault, that the gang got me hooked, that they started it.” And he’d spent years in the delusion that his own problems weren’t his responsibility, that he’d been set on the course by someone else. “I could of stopped it once I was out, when the meds were my own responsibility and I didn’t. I made it worse,” he said firmly, needing someone to believe that he had more than his fair share of responsibility in the whole thing.
Dr. Samson might’ve been the tipping point, but he’d had opportunities to head it off before it got worse and he didn’t; that was all on him.
“I wish they’d keep it to themselves, the fact that they don’t agree with me,” he muttered. He wasn’t angry, but there was an undertone of frustration. Brooks was impartial enough that he didn’t think admitting that to him was going to be a big deal. “I know they care, believe me, no one would put up with the shit I put them through if they didn’t, but I wish they’d just get where I’m coming from.”
Really get it, not just theoretically understand where he was coming from. But that just wasn’t possible; none of the people he cared about had gone through what he did. Brooks was right, they couldn’t really understand where they were coming from.
With a sigh he scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned his chair back again. “Fuck, I need them to be there, I do, but I can’t help that I don’t get their reasons for wanting to think I’m some fucking brave saint.” Because the thing was, he didn’t think that. Part of him (most of him some days) still believed that he wasn’t worth the people or the things that he had. Another thing he’d probably have to sort out with Brooks. It was the one list.
“Some victim of a fucked up man,” he continued. “I’m not. I’m an addict you struggles with that every fucking day, and I failed because it was there, and no one was catching on to the fact that I was slipping.” No one that cared. “That’s me. I might not be a fucking waste of space, but I’m an addict. It’s not something you shake, not fully, not ever.”