Help

Posted on 11 Dec 2019 @ 2:02pm by Staff Warrant Officer William Griffin

1,522 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Epilogue
Location: New Bajor
Timeline: January 2390

OOC: Before reading, be aware that this post contains triggers for suicidal thoughts and mental illness.

William Griffin stared at the image in the mirror, wondering just how he had gotten so old looking. He was by no means an old man, but the past year had taken more than it's fair share from him. He looked... weary, on the outside, like someone had drained all the life out of him.

Healing from the physical injuries hadn't taken much time. Two broken arms, five broken ribs, a cracked clavicle and a broken shoulder hadn't taken more than a few days to set right, though the journey from the Black Hawk, through the barrier and back to New Bajor on board a tiny shuttle that was barely big enough for his large frame had been an exercise in torture.

Only a few days after returning, he'd be reassigned to a maintenance job planet-side, fixing up shuttles that were coming in and out of the small Starfleet outpost on the planet. It was dull, easy work that took no effort and little thought.

The mental scars, that was something else - all his life, Bill Griffin had been in charge, always the biggest, always the strongest, always able to handle whatever the universe threw at him. Until the Dolmoqour. Being utterly powerless, utterly helpless, like a damn baby in a crib, had awoken him to the reality that he really wasn't in charge of anything, not even himself. Fate, or random chance, or the whim of some alien, could take away everything from him at ease and, in reality, there was nothing, not a damn thing, he could do about it.

Coming to terms with that vulnerability had proven too much, and before long he had found himself at the bottom of a bottle on the regular. At first, it had been easy to keep the drink and his duties separate, but as the months passed the line had blurred and the Chief had found himself first in the brig, then in sickbay and now, in his seven-month-long temporary quarters, stripped of his duties and on forced medical leave with a limited replicator, daily visits from the doctor to administer anti-withdrawal medication that made his stomach turn and his head hurt, and forced sessions with some damn councilor who didn't understand anything.

Somewhere, deep in the core of his being, he was ashamed of himself. He knew that academically, the counselor had explained it in that horrible, gentle voice that he used, as if he was trying to talk down an angry animal. Mostly, he felt anger, though when he tried to pinpoint where that anger was focused it made his head spin. Geisler, the Dolmoqour, himself, Starfleet, the bottle, life, the universe, all of them blurred into a ball of rage so tightly wound and tensed that it felt like a physical knot in his stomach. Under that rage, his other emotions had retreated to a dull background noise that he barely noticed.

For ten days, he'd been subjecting himself to the routine of doing nothing. Sitting in his quarters staring at the wall, enduring the counselor and his damn stupid, condescending, annoying voice without murdering the man and taking the damn medicine like a good Starfleet boy. For ten days, he'd held the rage at bay with what remained of his willpower, letting it fester and seep, letting it feed.

The chief looked down at the knife in his hand, it was Klingon, long and sharp with a curved, serrated edge and a blue-grey glint. He hadn't really had an idea in his head when he'd picked it up, a fleeting impulse that had passed as fast as it had arrived, but now that he stared at it, he was disgusted by it - by the idea. His knuckles were white around the hilt as he dithered between throwing the thing, dropping it or... there was that idea again, it kept coming back.

Would it be so terrible? The end could come swiftly, he knew how to do it. Starfleet hand-to-hand training had seen to that. But still he hesitated, would it be on his own terms, or was it running away? Was it bravery or cowardice? Would he be abandoning his life and duty or setting others free of his burden? Those dilemma gnawed at him, chewed at his conscience and what shreds remained of his pride. He couldn't find the answers, staring down at that knife, he couldn't find a path that didn't lead to a wrong turn.

Almost on autopilot, Griffin's other hand reached up and tapped the comm panel on his left, accessing the medical staff in the facility where he'd found himself living and working, "Griffin to medical," he growled, the anger seeping into his voice, "..."

"Chief Griffin?" It was the head nurse, he sounded concerned - confused maybe? Griffin couldn't tell. "What is it, Chief?"

"... help." The word choked him and he had to force it out through a lump in his throat that he hadn't felt before. His legs, thick and strong like the trunks of a tree, were shaking, weak, and he felt tears on his face for the first time in his memory. "I need help."

"Chief?! Demarkes, follow me! Hold on, chief!" Griffin barely heard it, the yelling through the comm. He barely noticed when someone gently pried the knife from his hand, or set him down on a bed. He barely noticed the concerned whispers around him, and when the hypospray hit his arm, he didn't notice anything at all for a while.

== 2 weeks later ==

"I'm fine, dammit." The lie spilled out of Griffin's lips before he could think to stop it, and he could almost taste it. They had called it a 'suicidal episode', he'd heard 'risk factors', 'mental break', 'chronic stress' and 'clinical depression', along with a dozen other terms. He'd let them slip by, most of the two weeks since he'd found himself back in the medical bay had been nothing but a hazy blur. Little had made sense and he had not found the will to care much about the rest, he'd just let it slide.

"Mister Griffin, you are not fine. You are about as far from fine as I have ever seen, so cut the subspace interference and tell the damn truth." The psychologist, not a counselor now but a something else, frowned down at him. She was an older woman with heavy eyebrows and an almost comforting no-nonsense attitude. There was no gentle tones or softly spoken words with Doctor St. John, it was straight to the point.

"I'm not gonna get better sitting in this damn stupid medical bay with you up my damn ass every twenty seconds." Griffin growled in reply, "I'm sober now, all I gotta do is go back to work and I'll get over it." He wondered why she couldn't understand that it was the boredom, the sitting around with nothing to do but think that was driving him mad. He'd figured that out only recently, that it had been the ten days of sitting and thinking that had done him in. Work, he had decided, was the answer.

"No," St. John sighed, "we've been over this, William. Two weeks in a damn stupid medical bay isn't going to fix what's got you. You reached out for help once, don't start pushing me away again. I can show you the path, but you're the one that's got to walk it. You need to accept that you have a serious problem, and I don't mean just agreeing with me because you can't be bothered to argue with me any more, I mean actually coming to terms with what's eating you alive."

"You can take your terms and shove them up your ass!" Griffin barked at the woman, letting free the anger that he'd been holding back. He immediately felt bad for doing it, but the woman's facial expression didn't change from the stoic, slightly bored look she seemed to permanently maintain.

"Did you know that the Black Hawk's crew have been recalled as of yesterday?" She replied, seemingly nonplussed by his anger. "She's going back out there, but I'm sorry to say that you won't be going with her. Whether you can accept it or not, you're in no condition to carry out your duties and if you won't, or can't see reason, then I'm going to have you transferred to a facility on Earth."

Griffin wanted to feel... what? Angry, shocked, sad? But he mostly felt numb. Was he supposed to want to go back to the Black Hawk? Was that what she was getting at? Honestly, he couldn't bring himself to care much. There were people, a few people, that he'd vaguely miss, but separation was part of Starfleet life anyway, he reasoned, and half of the people he would have missed were dead anyway.

"Fine," he grumbled, surprised at the sound of defeat in his voice. "Earth. Facility. Good. Just get me the hell out of this damn stupid medical bay."

RSS Feed