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: Pfft. Well, I finally updated a few days ago…and I’m happy
to say that I have an actual plotline! Thanks to la.vie.maurelphaba for reviewing
the last chapter! :)

I looked up from my bed—the room was dark and unusually cold. I pulled my
blanket closer, shivering. “Fuck…maybe the heat got turned off,” I grumbled. I lay
there for a while, trying to get warm and failing miserably.
Suddenly I felt something prick my arm, and I looked down to see Cyn
grinning at me, a needle in my arm. I instantly felt the euphoria of the heroin, and
sighed contentedly. “Thanks, Cyn,” I whispered.
The grin didn’t falter, and I studied her face closer. She looked…younger.
Like the first time…oh, fuck. I felt nausea sweeping me, and I bent over and
retched. The bliss of the drug had passed quickly, as if I hadn’t been using for
years. What the fuck was going on?
I looked around, realizing that I wasn’t in my room at the loft anymore. But
Roger and Cohen were staring at me from a distance. Cohen looked disapproving
and frustrated, but Roger…he just looked blindly furious, as though I’d done
something to him, not to myself. I glanced down at my arm, and yanked the syringe
out.
Cyn was back, her young face grinning at me still. “Like it? I thought you
would,” she slurred.
My stomach turned over in a moment of déjà vu. “Cyn, what the fuck are you
talking about? I’ve used before,” I said. But my voice was hoarse and soft.
Cyn rolled her eyes. “No you haven’t, Ells. Here—it’ll be better this time,” she
said, aiming a full syringe at my arm and jabbing it in. But this time it wasn’t filled
with heroin—a nurse was taking a sample of my blood. She smiled after she had
enough, and left. “I’ll have this back in a moment, dearie.”
I looked around again. I was sitting alone in a doctor’s office, up on the
examination table. I swung my legs, trying to understand how I’d gotten here from
being in that empty black space.
But I didn’t have much time—the clock on the wall jumped forward thirty
minutes, and the nurse was back. But she wasn’t smiling as she handed me a sheet
of paper. “Honey, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
I took the paper, wondering two things: one, if she was a lesbian, and two, if
she was sorry for making me wait.
And then I read the paper.
“Ellen Mercado. Age 20. Test: positive,” I whispered. No…it wasn’t fucking
happening…I didn’t have AIDS! I wasn’t HIV positive!
I woke to Roger shaking me, his eyes alight with worry. “Ells! Ells, wake up!”
he cried.
I shoved his hands away, gulping in deep breaths of air. My heart was
pounding and I was trembling uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck,” I breathed, looking up at
him.
“Are you ok?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Mimi, his
fiancée, was in the doorway, holding a wet cloth and looking concerned.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah,” I whispered. “B-bad dream.”
 Mimi smiled at me, and walked over. She had only gone through withdrawal a
few months ago, and seeing someone going through it hurt her more than Roger.
She pressed the cloth to my head, looking a lot more relieved than Roger.
“That had to be a pretty bad dream-”
“Rog, hush,” said Mimi firmly, shaking her head. “Maybe you don’t
remember, but bad hallucinations or dreams are normal in withdrawal.” She took
my hand, and I flashed her a grateful smile. The cloth was cool against my
forehead, and I wasn’t trembling as much.
But the dream had seemed so real…too fucking real for my tastes.
“Hey, is she alright now?” asked Cohen, sticking his head in the doorway.
When he saw me awake, he actually smiled at me. “Feeling better?” he asked
genuinely.
I considered snapping, but then decided against it—my throat was hurting…
had I been screaming or something? I nodded slightly. “Yeah,” I replied, hearing the
word scratch its way out of my throat and die out.
Cohen nodded. “Well, you were screaming your head off a few minutes ago.
Something about ‘it’s not fucking happening,’” he said, obviously trying to get me
to smile—he wasn’t very good at it.
But his words had brought back the dream. “I wanna get tested,” I rasped. At
that declaration, it seemed that they knew what I’d been screaming about. Mimi
squeezed my hand, and exchanged a look with Roger.
“Why don’t you wait a few days?” she asked gently. “Just until you’re a little
better.”
I shook my head frantically. “No! I wanna get fucking tested today!” I
shouted. It hurt like hell to raise my voice, but I needed to get my point across.
Mimi sighed, but nodded. “Alright. Mark, Roger, why don’t you go call the
doctor,” she said pointedly. I knew she wanted them out of the room.
“Meems, Mark can do it-” Roger began, whining a little.
But Mimi shook her head. “Go, Roger,” she said forcefully.
I hadn’t really taken the time—or been able to take the time—to get to know
Mimi all that well. I knew she danced at the Cat Scratch Club, because I’d seen her
there a few times. She worked the earlier night shift, while I worked the latest—we
only passed on occasion. I hadn’t known she lived in the same building as Cyn,
because I always came in while she was sleeping, probably. I also knew she was a
year younger than me, and had been addicted to drugs until she’d fallen in love
with Roger. The fact that he wouldn’t be with her while she was on drugs had
convinced her to quit.
But now I had a better chance to get to know her. She was forceful, sweet,
caring, and a little manipulative at times. Sometimes she could change from being
really sweet to suddenly sharp and angry—she reminded me of Cyn sometimes…
the Cyn before the drugs. In high school Cyn had been exactly like Mimi. And then
she’d discovered heroin, and it had changed her completely.
Mimi looked at me with her knowing chocolate eyes. “What brought this on,
Ells?” She frowned. “You aren’t using again, are you?”
I remembered the dream, and shook my head frantically. “No!” I yelped.
She smiled. “I didn’t think you would.” But she didn’t say anything else, and I
knew she wanted me to answer her first question.
“Look, Meems…I really don’t wanna talk about it,” I breathed.
Mimi squeezed my hand again. “I understand…but…try, ok?”
 I nodded. I trusted her—I knew that she understood what I was going
through. I mean, fuck, I’d dreamt about heroin. I didn’t know what was normal, but
Mimi and Roger did. “Well…” I hesitated, sighing. “I dreamed about…it.” I couldn’t
say the name—it would make it too real, too available, too tempting.
She nodded in understanding. Her eyes flashed with concern once, before
she hid it. “In a good or bad way?” Mimi asked, cocking her head to one side.
Sometimes I hated how Mimi immediately got to the fucking root of the
problem. “Bad…I think. I mean, it was more of a memory. When Cyn—when I first
tried heroin,” I admitted. The second the word passed my lips I shuddered—it
brought back so much, including that wonderful feeling of euphoria…surely I could
just use once more.
But then I saw Roger and Cohen’s faces, and I gritted my teeth. Roger and
Mimi had figured that I had only a couple weeks to go—I couldn’t fall apart now. Not
this close.
Mimi touched my shoulder. “Well…that isn’t so bad.”
I shuddered again. “But…it looked so real,” I murmured, shaking my head. I
couldn’t believe that it hadn’t been real…but it had been. It’d been my memory of
the first time Cyn got me to try heroin. ‘Like it? I thought you would.’ She’d been
fucking wasted on Absolut and heroin, and she had pulled me outside of her
parents’ house, plopping down on the stone while I sat on the bench. She’d
suddenly pulled out a syringe and grabbed my arm. ‘Hey! What the fuck do you
think you’re doing?’ I’d snapped.
Cyn flashed me a bleary smile. ‘Helping you get high. You’ve only had one
drink—you don’t like Absolut enough to drink it.’ And she’d injected me…
“Well, it wasn’t,” said Mimi firmly. “Listen, don’t worry about it. You can go
get your test today…” She hugged me briefly but tightly, and tears welled up in my
eyes. I rarely was hugged or shown any affection from my mother. She’d all but
disowned me after she found out about my addiction. “You’re almost through it, ok?
Just hang on for a couple more weeks, and you’ll be alright.” There was a promise
hidden in her words. I promise you’ll be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you.
I nodded, running a hand through my hair. “I must look like shit, huh?”
Mimi laughed, clearly happy that I was shrugging off the dream—well, I
hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to let it outwardly bother me. Not with people around, at
least. “Yeah, pretty much,” she giggled. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
An hour later I emerged from the bedroom, having showered and put on
clean clothes for the first time in ages. I twirled once in front of the glass, looking at
my reflection while the boys were in the kitchen. I was very thin—thinner than I’d
ever been in my whole life—and my eyes looked a little dull, but still were vibrant
green.
Mimi luckily was thin too, and her skirt fit well—it was dark blue with sparkles.
I used to only wear sparkles at the Cat Scratch Club, so it was freeing to wear them
outside the club. I looked critically at my hair: it was curling up a bit from the wind
blowing through the open window—and maybe the broken skylight. It actually was
getting shiny…I hadn’t cared much about my hair in the past few months, but when
I heard the boys coming back in I surreptitiously fluffed it up, aiding the curling
process.
Roger grinned at me. “Well, it’s nice to see you out of bed,” he said, giving
me a quick one-armed hug.
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the concern,” I said, winking.
 He ruffled my hair. “Welcome,” he said. He paused frowning, then said, “I
called the doctor…we probably should get going.”
My stomach flipped over. “Uh, yeah. Let’s go.”
Roger hugged me fully then. “It’ll be fine,” he said. Like Mimi before, he
seemed to be promising that it would be alright.
I smiled slightly. “Yeah. I know.”
Mimi and Roger linked arms and headed towards the door, while I hung back.
“I’ll catch up with you guys in a second,” I said, moving towards my bedroom—I
needed my coat. I ran back inside the bedroom, grabbed the coat, and went back
out.
I shuddered as the cold air hit my exposed neck—stupid coat. It didn’t button
up all the way. I rubbed my neck to warm it up, muttering, “Stupid fucking coat.
Can’t even have enough fucking buttons.” I wrapped my arms around myself, also
cursing the cold New York weather.
It was even colder outside. I shivered once, but luckily Mimi and Roger didn’t
notice—Cohen had come down the stairs after me. “I’ll come too,” he offered,
shooting me a smile.
I knew he was trying to get back into my good graces, but it just wasn’t going
to happen. I couldn’t make myself stop hating his guts—even though I was doing
exactly what he’d said to do in the first fucking place. I knew I was just being…well,
pretty fucking silly.
I turned away from him and walked on, clutching my coat around me tightly.
Even as I looked up, clouds were gathering. I gritted my teeth and walked faster.
Once we got there, I was assaulted by the too-clean doctor’s office smell. I
grimaced—fuck, I hate that. I focused on breathing through my mouth, not thinking
about what I was here to do. I was scared out of my fucking mind, but I wasn’t
going to show it—so I leaned against the wall, shutting my eyes to the dismal room.
‘Ellen Mercado. Age 20. Test: positive…’
I jolted awake, taking deep breaths. Mimi touched my shoulder. “You ok?”
she asked softly.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
She smiled and squeezed my hand. “You’re up soon. Do you want us to go in
with you?”
I noticed her careful use of ‘us,’ managing to include Cohen. But I nodded all
the same. “Ok. Ok. Sure. Yeah. Whatever.” I looked at the floor—my voice was
uncertain and broke several times.
“Mercado? Ellen Mercado?”
The nurse was standing at the door, looking around—for me. I stood up, and
she smiled at me as I walked over to her.
“Ms. Mercado, come with me,” she said, heading inside. I followed her, and
she tried to shut the door before the others could get inside.
I stopped it with a hand, and she gave me a look. “This is a private test, Ms.
Mercado,” she said, smiling still.
I grabbed Mimi’s hand, feeling more than a little angry—who the fuck did she
think she was to tell me I couldn’t have my friends with me? I glared at her, my
temper rising quickly. “Listen, they’re my best friends—they’re coming with me,” I
growled.
The nurse nodded slowly. “Very well.”
First she weighed me—I was a bit shocked when I saw the scales read 101.
I’d really lost a lot of weight. I’d been at a steady 110 for a while, needing to be thin
for my job. But I hadn’t eaten much in the past few months, so it made sense. My
body had been rejecting almost every fucking thing I put into my stomach.
Second she measured me—I was 5’7, as per usual. I hadn’t grown in years.
And then she led me—us—into a room. Luckily there was enough seating
room with me on the table. The nurse examined me thoroughly, then left, promising
to return.
I sat for a while, listening to the others talking quietly. But I got restless, and
so I started pacing the room.
“Settle down, Ells,” said Mimi gently. “You’ll be fine.”
There was that fucking promise again. It was getting pretty fucking annoying
—I already got the idea. But all the same I nodded, and forced myself to sit down. I
fluffed my hair, unbuttoned and rebuttoned my coat, shifted my weight several
times, and then finally stared at the clock.
Half an hour passed before the nurse came back in. She took a sample of my
blood, and then left with an encouraging smile. Her reappearance had done nothing
to ease my nerves—in fact, it had made me even more nervous.
I ripped pieces from the paper sheet on the table and rolled them into little
tubes.
I scuffed designs on the white cabinet doors.
I watched the clock for fifteen minutes straight.
I taught myself how to rotate my hands opposite ways.
I sang through mine and Roger’s song ten times.
And then the nurse finally came back in, a piece of paper in her hand and her
face unreadable.
I knew then—I had AIDS. I was positive. I swallowed, staring at the paper like
it would kill me by just touching it. I knew I’d fucked up bad this time. There was no
going back from here—instead of spending my money on heroin, I’d spend it on
AZT. I’d die young, and it was all my fault. I couldn’t do anything about what was
printed on that paper. What I’d done to myself couldn’t be undone. I’d killed myself,
and I couldn’t do a fucking about it. I couldn’t help myself now—fuck, no one could.
Not Roger or Mimi or Cohen—or even Cyn, for fuck’s sake.
I was a murderer. Or suicidal. Or a suicide case. Something.
I couldn’t think straight—my brain rushed through one idea and the next, not
giving me time to focus on one thought before it was gone. But one thought
remained constant.
I’d killed myself.