It had been the hardest thing in the world to do-- and the stupidest thing in the world to do-- and yet it had been so very, very easy.

Zale sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, tense and trembling just a little, arms wrapped around his flexed legs and chin resting on his knees. The door and his shut so that Wiro couldn't look in on him or even sense him, though he doubted she'd be wondering what he was up to. She was out with one of her friends, the dragon Linelith, probably at a movie. Or perhaps the planetarium; they seemed to like that place. Regardless, she was thoroughly distracted, doing her best to make sure he knew she didn't want their friendship to change because he hadn't won her flight.

Not that she could have seen into his bedroom, anyway, with how the apartment was set up, but it just felt safer with the door shut. Cannon was shut outside, too, and Zale suspected he was laying across the hallway in front of the door. He'd given up on pacing and whining a little while ago, when it didn't get him inside with his owner. Zale hadn't quite ignored him, but even the thought of his dog looking at him and knowing, in whatever way dogs knew, that he was a weak, sad, pathetic human being. If dogs even knew that. Zale liked to think dogs were fairly intelligent, and those big, sad, brown eyes just made him feel guilty.

Actually, the thought of most anything made him feel guilty, at the moment, because sitting on the bed in front of him was a little, foux-leather bag, firmly zipped shut, that he'd brought home that very morning. A morning when he knew Wiro would be out.

He hadn't told her about the phone call. He couldn't. If he did, she'd ask what he'd done. If he did, he wouldn't be able to hide anything from her. If he did, she'd-- she'd know.... And he couldn't take that. Couldn't take her disapproval, her anger, her fear. For him, of him, it didn't matter. He already felt guilty enough, and despicable enough, without her knowing, too.

It had been three years-- three years and then some. The cravings hadn't ever gone away; he expected they never would. But he had them under control, as long as he had something to keep him busy, his dragon and his dog, and no way of contacting anyone who could put a temporary end to them. He still had two of those things.

Then that call....

How did he find me? I must have changed my number six times since then... wasn't he going away, running away, after I was caught? Did he just get back? God, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, he did find me....

He'd told himself he'd forget about that message. Once he had the presence of mind, and dexterity, to do so, he'd deleted it from his voice mailbox. That had taken a lot of willpower, but he'd done it. A small victory, perhaps not as small as it should have been.

But not really a victory at all, because he couldn't forget about that message. Even worse, he couldn't forget the number, the number, that he could call... but he shouldn't call. Wouldn't call.

Had called.

He groaned to himself and buried his face in his knees. Three years... three years I was clean. Still could be clean. This isn't the end of the world. I still could stay clean.

If he got up the strength to empty that little bag into the toilet.

It hadn't been much of a phone call. Zale had stuttered and choked on his words, nearly as inarticulate as he'd been before Wiro. His "old friend"-- who, if he'd really been a friend, would never have called, would never have said the things he'd said or offered the things he'd offered.... -- he was used to that, used to the forced words and reluctant silences. He knew who it was, and he knew what he wanted, so the call had been mercifully-- horribly-- brief. And had resulted in a meeting. That very morning.

The meeting had seemed to last for hours. Zale had hardly looked at the man he'd come to see, had said little, and yet still it seemed to have lasted far, far too long. His "old friend" had done most of the talking. That was how it always had been. There had been such a sense of familiarity, as if nothing had changed, as if the past three years had never happened--

--except for the nagging fear that he'd somehow be found out by the one being whose opinion of him he did not want to sully. Except for the feeling that he hated himself for being so weak that he couldn't resist old, familiar, unthreatening cravings. Except for the deep, shuddering sense of guilt, as if he'd betrayed her, for he had betrayed her....

Those years had happened, and there was no denying the fact that he had a reason to stay clean.... A very, very good reason.

But, so far, it hadn't been reason enough.

I love her. I do. I shouldn't be doing this. I don't have to do this. What's a couple hundred credits? I can get that job in robotics and earn that back in-- two days. Three, maybe. It's not as if it's a waste of money. It'd be worth it just to know that I could... that I could....

But could he? He rested his chin back on his knees, gaze drawn back to that terrible temptation sitting just within arm's reach. It was agony. He remembered what it was like, he knew-- and he wanted it. Everything in him wanted it so badly-- yearned for it, needed it, like he needed the air he wasn't drawing in, because he was holding his breath.

Everything except what belonged to Wiro. That little bit of common sense that told him he was staring at the most dangerous thing in all the worlds.

If only I could....

Could he?

Of course I can.

Could he?

Of course I--

Could he?

Oh, God... Wiro, I'm sorry, I never should have--

The bag was far too easy to open-- and far too difficult.

But he did it.

Chapter Eleven

Back