Falling Slowly:

written by Emily_Destler


Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Notes: I know. I haven't updated in months and I feel really bad about it. This chapter was written word by excruciating word and cut and switched around hundreds of times over, and the process was painfully slow. I apologize deeply for the trouble I've caused with such a cliff-hanger. As always, I thank you for your patience and your continuing to be loyal readers and reviewers, and not getting too upset at me. I think this installation is longer than usual, so please enjoy. Thank you so much for your support and being so wonderful.


Chapter Nine: White Walls

Goodman, Gabriel, A.

Discovered unconscious at home: multiple razor wounds to wrists and forearms; self-inflicted.

Current treatment:

? saline rinse

? sutures

? gauze

? antibiotics

? IV

Current state: Isolated, sedated, and restrained.

ECT is indicated.

-:():-:():-:():-:():-:():-

Confusion. That was it; the first coherent thing in his head, the first feeling that he could place a name to. Everything was quiet—silent—but somehow loud. Like cupping your ears and hearing the swirl of an ocean inside your hands, but he wasn't cupping his ears, no. He couldn't feel his hands, or his ears, or his body. He was only just remembering he had a body.

It was like his whole self, the simple idea of him, was just now coming back to him and clicking into place. It was strange, but it also made perfect sense because that awareness is only something that comes to you after you spend so much time blissfully unaware of everything. However, this—the world that was steadily surrounding him—was so loud and so strange that he couldn't help but take notice of it.

Everything was dark and fuzzy in those first moment of consciousness, and you could bet he was just barely there, barely awake and weakly trying to make connections in his mind. It felt like his head was made of brick, heavy and dense. His brows furrowed slightly.

He was finally waking up.

The confusion, as it will, started doing it's job in blowing away the fog of nothingness in his head, filling it with a different one; a heavy fog of utter disorientation. Although, instead of lulling him into a blessed, dreamless state of unconsciousness that he has already spent an unidentifiable amount of time in, it did the opposite. It was rousing him, cruelly keeping him from once again succumbing to the dizziness and dibilitation that was so tempting and so peaceful. And, believe me, that melancholy state was much more preferable than what awaited him outside of it.

Everything was at once bright and bleary as he cracked opened his eyes. He did so cautiously, instinctively afraid of seeing whatever waiting for him outside for what felt like the first time in a lifetime. They struggled to focus, and it only made the confusion worse as he had no clue where he was. It was all so incredibly hard to put together and he couldn't remember why.

After a while, his vision and thoughts began to clear, to the point where he could just hardly make out some white, banded squares and a fluorescent light. The brightness of it made him blink and squint.

There was a sick feeling in his intensities that implied something was very wrong.

But his thoughts were slurred and blended together, making it nearly impossible to do anything rational or remember how he'd gotten here in the first place. However, the sound of them—the words of his thoughts—rang out like a distant bell from beneath the ringing and the white noise of which he couldn't decide was in his head or outside of it. Eventually, he could pick them out, try to make sense of his thoughts. Eventually, he understood the echo of their words.

Where?

Where? Where am I?

How?

Where is she?

His stiff limbs wouldn't respond to the demands he sent them. His brain was telling them to move but they refused to and he couldn't understand. Why?

He felt frozen and there was terrifyingly nothing he could do about it.

He tried to move; he really did. But it was like he was paralyzed by some terrible weakness. Fear crept up along the sides of his mind, dark and threatening like a lethal smoke that filled his life-lungs. In addition, as if things couldn't get worse, this—the smoke—was the feeling that actually prompted somewhat of a proper reaction out of him, elevating his heart rate dramatically.

He eventually felt blood return to his nerves, warming his chilled body that he only just realized actually felt cold. I guess you could say that's what he felt as he regained circulation: warmth, but it really all started with a rumbling in his chest, the first movement he could pull off. Eventually, his diaphragm started to flutter and his upper body began making tiny lurches that increased in width and intensity by the second. His shoulders shook a bit, at first, and the coughing that immediately followed him regaining conscious control of his own breathing brought attention to a piece of rubbery plastic stuck past his mouth and down into his throat. God, it felt like he was being gagged. He choked past it pitifully.

This is when the real panic started to set in. It made his eyes blink and dart around rapidly, as if he was trying to take in everything tiny thing around him at once. He was just trying to understand what was happening, to feed the fear that only grew in him.

Oh, god, what is this? He thought.

His entire body felt cold and slightly numb when he regained actual mobility of it, which started with sluggish movement of his fingers and some other joints that were physically close to his brain.

He wanted to be free. He wanted to escape.

He needed to run.

Colors suddenly swam into his vision and two unfamiliar faces appeared from the blur. He flinched as a cold thumb pressed against the pulse point in his right forearm and a whole other hand to his left touched his shoulder. For just a second he noticed their lips moving, and he realized that they mouthed words and produced sounds that he could not comprehend.

He panicked.

These sluggish, clumsy movements that he started out with soon morphed into sharp, frenzied ones. His arms were bending and legs were kicking, fighting these people off and thrashing in their grip. He fought wildly. Every instinct, every nerve-ending he could feel at that particular moment, was telling him he needed to get away.

But there was something holding him down; distinctly not a someone, but a something. He writhed in whatever restriction held him. His arms jerked against the smooth, cool material of the bonds.

"...C-m d... Calm down... -ster Goodman, calm down, your perfectly safe, you just need to relax—" One of the nurses, a dark-skinned woman with her hair tied back and purple scrubs, held his arm in a cold hand while her voice finally reached him, just as his hearing finally cleared out. But he was gone from reason.

He pulled and pulled against the restraints, panick holding him in a vice so tight he could hardly breathe. It was hellish. It consumed him so throuroughly that he could only half-listen to the women speaking to him and to the rapid growth in pace with that strange beeping noise next to him.

His mind was in fight-or-flight mode, and somehow, someway, his body was trying to react simultaneously with both of the mechanisms. He wanted to fight just as much as he wanted to flee. He was practically animal in his panic, all at once a stuck pig, a wounded bird, and a deer in headlights. He just needed to get away. And now. He would have been screaming if he thought he could've.

His heart raced in his chest. He continued to struggle violently, fight wildly against the bonds.

Let me go!

"N-no!" He choked out past the tube the second he regained the power of speech. It sounded more like a weak, garbled mess than a word. He coughed again, and refused listen to the nurses as they tried to shush and scold him.

Unfortunately, the complete regaining of feeling also brought some pain signals to his brain, a brief distraction from current events. He pinpointed that the pain was coming from where his tugging on the leather straps chaffed tender spots along his wrists. Very tender spots. They stung exactly like something he was having far too much trouble remembering.

But he couldn't be concerned with that now, not while he needed to escape from this horrible position they put had him in. Or, whoever had put him in it. Why didn't he know?

Dammit, why couldn't he remember?

Let me go!

Please!

It's not fair!

Voices—thoughts, his thoughts, screamed inside his head, begging him to string it all together and to understand.

God, why didn't they all just leave him alone?

He bucked against the nurses again.

"It's not fair..." He voiced, head thrashing back and forth in resistence to the hands that held him, but these words were just garbled, slurred noises that he knew the hands wouldn't be able to comprehend. "Please!"

So, so confused...

Please!

Where is she?

"...I-" he tried.

Let me go!

Why did you do this?

"Ple-"

It's not fair!

"Mr. Goodman, just calm down." Someone murmured to him with a voice so collected and indifferent it made him want to scream.

Where is she?

"We're going to have to sedate him. Nurse Hanson?"

Why?

"I'm prepping the anesthetic now."

Why!

Screaming, screaming filled his head until—

Where's my mother?

One stray thought among white silence. His face contorted as his mind finally settled into understanding, and came with a sob that ripped through his entire body. All of the pieces had fallen into place.

"Gabriel, just stay still for me please, okay, sweetie?"

He remembered it all. His body collapsed against the bed in defeat as the fight just left him. Tears were rushing from his eyes.

Why are you doing this?

Suddenly, it all made sense, and he could actually make sense of why he was here. All these nurses made sense, this room made sense, the pain made sense, even the restraints made horrible, miserable sense. And he couldn't handle it.

Why?

Why didn't you just let me die?

Anger. Fear. Despair. The emotions swirled throughout him, mixing together until he could hardly recognize them and he was going to be sick. His chest hurt. It felt like his heart was literally breaking in his chest. How could they do this to him? His suffering was finally at it's end; he'd finally come to terms and accepted his situation as it was, only for them to bring him back down entrap him in his pitiful life. They'd ripped him away from her, and for what?

He hated them.

He should be dead.

He wanted to be dead. Why couldn't they understand that?

Tiny sobs wracked Gabe's body whilst he felt them administer a thin, cool rush into his bloodstream. He didn't struggle, even when he was shushed by a nurse, like some fitful child. He had clearly given up fighting uselessly and had decided instead to not deny his misery. What was the fucking point anymore?

It wasn't fair. He was promised no more pain, promised an eternity to spend with his mother in a place he could feel safe and free and happy, and they've stolen that from him. They've taken away his choices, his free will. He couldn't even choose to die and this—this was what hurt the most. He was just laying here helplessly, restrained, surrounded by people he didn't know and they were the ones who got to decide what's best for him! That was rich. Gabe would have laughed if he weren't too busy crying.

And with that he truly wasn't interested in the rapid commotion around him; didn't care what they did to him, not anymore. It was all too fast for him to follow anyway. He had been so close to escape before he realized that they wouldn't allow for it to be so simple. It wasn't his choice. They would keep him tied down, literally tied down, and he would try and try but they would reign him back in.

Just as they did now.

His thoughts, the colors, his feelings were receding faster than he could even comprehend. He wanted to lash out, thought about it, but his stiffening body wouldn't allow for it. Mobility, just another thing they got to take away from him with drugs and fucking restraints.

Like they took his mother. Everyone wanted to take her from him and he can't understand why. Why isn't he allowed to have her? She's what made him happy, as simple as that is, but happiness is fleeting, isn't it? Happiness is a thing you can pursue, experience, but never, ever contain. And it was too far out of Gabe's reach for him to even try. Why should he?

He whimpered helplessly, quietly, and slipped from consciousness with a heavy clunk before he could begin to think of the answer.

-:():-:():-:():-:():-:():-

It'd been almost a half an hour and he hadn't said a word, not one. He barely moved, didn't acknowledged them, and there was nothing behind his still eyes. In fact, his body could have been completely frozen if it weren't for his even breathing and occasional blinking. It was tearing them to pieces.

It was so hard getting to this point, too. Natalie has clammed up since the minute the ambulance took him away on the worst night, and it took a lot for Dan to get her to come to the hospital with him for their first visit since he's regained consciousness, but he might as well still be asleep for all the difference it made. Dan thought that sitting beside his son when he was lying in a bed in the ICU with a sickly color to his skin and a weak pulse was as bad as it could be. He realized now that that was a stupid assumption.

Gabe was just staring off, and his eyes were blank and eerily absent. Still as can be, his vitals were in check and his pulse strong but there was something so goddamn awful about the way his dead eyes blinked mindlessly, about the way he was just gone. And even though there was nothing physically wrong with him, and his wounds were healing, there was a stricken feeling in Dan's gut that he had somehow lost him anyway, or lost, maybe ruined, a big part of him.

Dr. Madden explained to him that it was common for patients with a major depressive disorder to feel emotionally detached or sometimes detached from reality after waking up in a hospital, and that Gabe would snap out of it eventually. He told him that Gabe's suicide attempt was unprecedented and it wasn't Dan's fault he didn't notice any signs leading to it. He told him he'd just have to be much more careful. Except Dan thought he was being careful. And look where that had gotten him.

Inside the flourescent-lit room, the three of them sat in silence, Gabe sitting up against a pillow and railing on the hospital bed. The skin around Gabe's face was drawn and slightly pale when Dan looked at him, but not nearly as pale as the worst night. His hair was messy from inattention, and his eyes were red and sore-looking. But he was alive. At least.

Natalie, still wearing her jacket even though she'd stepped inside a half an hour ago and her arms folded tightly against her chest, had angry and quiet tears shining in her eyes, ones that she refused to shed. She didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction or idea that she was so affected by her brother. Dan didn't force any scrutiny on her, so she was safe. Instead, focused on his son.

Speaking of Dan, well, he didn't know what to think. His hair was mussed from running worried fingers through it, and he choked on all the words that were stuck in his throat. He wasn't sure what should happen next, or what to do with the card he'd been played, so he stayed quiet and let the time pass.

This was a situation he would have deal with slowly, and with caution and attention to detail.

He can still remember the sound of his daughter's shrieks, and he remembered the way it felt. It was like striking a live wire in him. He'd ran up the stairs immediately after that, listening to her begging for his help. There was barely enough time to fear the worst before made it up. No words can describe the dread he felt once he made it into the hall and saw that the door his son was in was cracked open, hearing those tormented cries of his daughter coming straight from inside. No words could compare.

By then, he knew what he'd find, but nothing could have prepared him for how it looked when he stepped inside. Not even the past.

It was like his blood turned to ice. He stumbled to his knees beside his daughter, who was looking away, and shuffled closer. He couldn't speak, could barely think, could only feel the cold, gut-wrenching remorse coiling and growing in his gut as trembling fingers fished his out his cell in his pocket to dial 9-1-1, and reached out to gather his son to his chest. It was all too familiar, and all too hard to accept. He almost couldn't recognize him, limp and lifeless in his arms. His child, dying before his eyes, and all the blood... His voice wavered horrendously when he found his breath and spoke to the operator on the line.

The cuts were, actually, shallower and less exact than most wounds of it's nature. It almost as if the cuts were made idly, like maybe he hadn't been paying much attention to his own suicide. So, in theory, when the ambulance arrived, he still had a present, if incredibly weak, pulse. Gabe wouldn't have slipped away immediately, but that was only because they'd noticed in time. If Natalie hadn't had checked for her dad in his room, then she would have never found her brother, and Dan couldn't think about what that would have meant for them.

Still, the event had made it's sentence. It was affecting all of them. Natalie had never seen anything like it in her life, something so traumatic, and she was suffering from it, he could tell. And Gabe would continue to suffer, that much was obvious. There wasn't an end in sight and Dan felt like drowning.

Madden mentioned to him that he guessed Gabe was psychologically detaching in this way because the circumstances were making him relive traumatic events. Dan wanted to scream and hit things. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so stupid and so blind? Has he learned nothing?

He guesses that would explain why after all things years, he still doesn't know how to handle the situation. Ideas to comfort and reassure were lost on him. He was trying his best, and his best wasn't good enough.

It never will be good enough, not when he's all on his own.

-:():-:():-:():-:():-:():-

"What?" Dan took a few steps closer to the doctor, alarmed. This, of all things, he'd never expect to hear from this doctor. "I mean, they still do that?"

"We do." Madden confirmed. He was used to this reaction, especially when it came from patients' family members, everytime he told them about this procedure: shock, worry, and suspicion. "It's the standard in cases like these, really; for a young adult, your son has quite a long history in drug therapy and resistance, and he's now acutely suicidal. If he continues as he's been refusing the medication, it's really our best option."

There was a dragging moment of silence as Dan thought. He bowed his head and rubbed a thumb across his brow, steeling himself, and his face was remarkably paler when he next faced the doctor. The thought of his child, or any innocent person for that matter, going through a medical procedure like this was enough to turn his stomach a bit. His voice was was strained and subdued as he spoke.

"Well that's kinda... terrifying."

"It's not." The doctor promised. "The electricity involved is barely enough to light a one hundred watt bulb."

"Oh, just a hundred watts." Dan deadpanned, and his were words painted with tired sarcasm. One of his hands rested against his hip and the other scratched his scalp wearily. The amount of white and pestilence in this hospital hallway was making him fidget.

DrMadden hid a quirk of a smile in the tight line he made with his lips. Yes, he could definitely see some of where Gabriel got his personality from. "I assure you, it's safer than crossing the street." He stated. "And the short-term success rate is over eighty percent."

Of course, this had to be true. Dr. Madden wouldn't lie to him, but it was just more statistics. More information about another treatment—the technical, hard, cold facts—that were just facts. His son was not a fact. He was a person. He's human. Throughout all the drug therapy and talks with thousands of brand new psychiatrists, even through the lithium, Gabe never stopped being Dan's son. The happiness and well-being of his child is not a study case.

This puzzle, the obstacle of Gabe's treatment, seemed to be regarded very factually considering how incredibly personal it is. It's sensitive and it's real.

Dan hesitated before responding, fleetingly: "I thought he was better."

He was so tired of facts and statistics.

Madden sighed slightly, tapping his thumb absently on the edge of the vanilla portfolio that held Gabe's paperwork. "Sometimes," he paused, "patients recover just enough strength to follow through on suicidal impulses... but not enough strength to resist them."

The two men let a silence pass, one that was heavy with thought. This, for Dan, was difficult to comprehend. It's not that he couldn't understand it, but, mostly, he just didn't want to.

"Well that's sound very... Fucked."

"Yes." Madden agreed, grimly, just before clearing his throat. His steady fingers quickly adjusted his glasses, then he spoke. "It is. Now, we still need him to sign his consent to follow through with the treatment, as he's now over the age of eighteen, but, hostpital policy is we need your signature, too."

Dan just shook his head doubtfully. "I don't think he's gonna go for this."

"Mr. Goodman," the doctor settled, extending a hand and getting the man to meet his eye. His disposition was serious and full of professional concern. "If you get him to consent, then we can administer the ECT and you can bring him home in ten days. We'll see how or if it helps him, and if it doesn't turn out exactly how we'd hoped, then, well, we'll at least have tried it. The alternative, however, is...we keep him sedated for fourty-eight hours, discharge him in the morning, and..." he adjusted Gabe's file in his hands so he was holding it in both, "wait for him to try again."

Dan's face clouded with understanding, and took on the expression of deep contemplation.

He was just so lost, so clueless. He didn't know what to do anymore.

It didn't feel like this could be right ever again, and everytime he thinks about it he's drowned with hopelessness. He can't handle the responsibility of being the keeper of a family with so much to work on, along with the pain and guilt he's collected for his son. No, he can't do it. At least not alone. For the thousandth time, the world he'd spent so much time super-glueing back together was crashing down around him and there was no other way to fix it.

How could he have let this happen?

"Look, go home." Madden suggested, seeing that Dan clearly wasn't in his best mind. "Take the night. You could definitely use the rest. We can talk to him in the morning."

Even though Dan was hesitant to drop it so easily, it only took one throb of a steady migraine to affirm that he really couldn't think straight right now.

"Yeah, alright." He allowed, and his throat felt dry and sticky with the words despite their logic.

There had always been a part of him that felt guilty for what he thought deserved more of his attention, especially when it comes to his family. If felt like it should be taking more of him than was physically possible. It was hard not to feel guilty for allowing his body to give up, even just for the night. Because that's just what it felt like. Giving up.

There's was too much surrender in his family, and it was up to him to be the one who won't ever give in. He can't fail his family, not after years and years a fighting to keep their head above water. It wasn't worth it to just give up now, not after all the work he'd installed into it.

He had to be the one person in this family to not give up, and god knows that was important.

When he got home and collapsed upon his bed, ignoring the memory of blood-stained floor and horror, he tried to push everything from his mind in order to get some real sleep. In wakefulness, of course, he could manage to keep it from skimming across his mind, but he couldn't help himself in sleep, when the images of doctors, anesthesia, his son, and electricity haunted his dreams in bright and threatening flashes.


Notes: Thank you for reading this long dragging chapter, and even if I don't deserve it, I would love love love to hear your thoughts. Thanks again, lovely readers!

~Em