A fine line

Rockbottom

The age old saying is for an addict to begin the recovery process they must hit their own personal rock bottom. Each addict has their own personal 'rock bottom' they must hit before even seeing they actually need help. Addiction changes your life in so many ways you don't always realize you even have a problem in the first place... Only a 'rock bottom' can make you feel so uncomfortable you want to find sobriety. At least, that's what the experts say.

I am no expert.

I came into that place because I was told if I didn't I was going to die. I am surprised I am still alive in the first place if I must be honest. (My doctors said I must be honest with myself if I want to ever heal.) I know most of my associates feel the same. Well, those who have been in my life long enough to have seen the change in me at least. No matter how prone I am to dramatics, there are some who were never fired by either myself or John over the years.

I know, it surprises me, too...

But I never chose to seek help myself. I was dropped off by a few 'friends' after a hell of a bender and left to my own devices. I finished the program, yes, but only because I didn't want to draw attention by withdrawing. I wonder if that is why I spend my nights with such a need for a drug cocktail so immense I wonder if I'll see the next light.

I wonder how my life would be different if I had given up after my first failed audition. If I hadn't taken the consolation envelope from a saddened Ray Williams so that our time was not wasted that afternoon. I wonder how different my life would be if I even received a different envelope than that of a young Bernie Taupin.

It truly was the luck of the draw...

This little diary is apparently supposed to be my solace or some rubbish. I don't understand why they thought it's a good idea to give me a pen and paper and believe it will be of any help to me whatsoever... They say it's best to write down what I remember of my life, (which isn't much, I assure you), as I have a hard time speaking about any of it.

I've always been shy. I played at being confident most of my life, as my Nan told me to. She is the only good thing still in my life. No matter how many bitch-fits I throw she is still behind me one hundred percent.

She raised my mother... She is used to it, I suppose.

I have been out of the rehab facility for weeks now. I have holed myself up in my mansion and have not taken any calls since. The call to the drink and drug is immense, but I have persevered so far. I have to wonder, though, just how much longer I can go on without it. It would be easy, going back. Easy as breathing, truly...

Elton leaned back in his leather chair and placed his slippered feet on the large oak desk. He was in the study that belonged to John during their many years together. He looked at the old rotary style telephone, the ache in his chest returning. He was certain at least one of those missed calls was Bernie, checking in on him. But he also knew a fair few would be John, wanting him to get on with it and just fucking perform again already... Do a line or two and hop into bed with him while he was at it as well. John was quite terrible for him and his sanity...

He began to chew on his pen for want of something to do.

Bernie was a good mate to him. Always had been, from the days holed up in his childhood bedroom in his mother's flat until Elton pushed him aside like yesterday's rubbish on the jet to Swindon. Elton knew now, with the drink and drugs out of his system, Bernie meant well. He had not betrayed Elton like Elton chose to believe at the time. He only needed a rest. He had hit his own person rock-bottom, and needed time to recuperate.

And Elton was a tool for not seeing it at the time.

He sighed. He knew he should pick up the damn phone and call Bernie and apologize at some point. He knew Bernie would answer the phone even now, half past two in the morning, if it meant he would finally know Elton was safe.

But he couldn't. Not tonight , he thought, throwing the biro on the desk. He slowly got to his feet. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be stronger, and more apt to even make sense in conversation. Bernie deserves more than I can give him tonight.

************

Bernie sat on his porch watching the sun rise, his now-cold tea sat still untouched beside him. He heard his wife slamming the pots and pans in the kitchen behind him as she made breakfast for them both, before packing her lunch for work, like she did every morning.

Though, normally, the pots and pans were treated a bit nicer than they were this morning.

Bernie folded his arms across the front of his flannel dressing gown. He was cross she was ruining his peaceful morning with such dramatics. The same such dramatics she cursed his best mate about over and over again throughout the years. She wouldn't even tell him what he had apparently done to cause it either. It was irritating.

Their love had faded long ago. Maxine had a volatile, somewhat passive aggressive relationship with him as of late, since he left rehab really, but he just couldn't get her to bloody leave ! She refused to believe their marriage was over, even if it had only been a marriage of convenience for years. They owned the ranch together, so he couldn't just kick her out as he wished, and it was too much of a headache to liquidate all he owned because he was silly and didn't have her sign a prenuptial agreement. He was in love way back when, of course... Most men usually are in their early twenties...

Now... Oh, how he bloody hated her...

He lit a cigarette, smirking at her groan of distaste as the smoke filtered through the screen door. He had picked up the disgusting habit in rehab, and just couldn't quit it. It was definitely better than the constant stream of beer and cocaine and heroine, though, he supposed. After throwing himself out the second story window of their ranch before actually heading into the rehab facility after a horrid heroine induced hallucination, he should be thankful she had stuck around, even if she had become the bane of existence.

He liked to sometimes prove he could be just as petty as she could be, like lighting up right in front of the screen door. For once, he felt no shame.

He roared with laughter when she slammed the door shut, her unintelligible screams causing even more laughter than perhaps sensible. Glad I brought my key with me this morning, he thought, patting the pocket of his flannel pants. He took a long drag of the cigarette. I hope she forgets to come back here after work... My life would finally be just jolly without her.

Bernie waited until he heard the front door slam shut behind Maxine before getting to his feet. He took his cane in his hand and limped to the door. He took his plate of food from the microwave and set it on his kitchen island. A note lay beside his place setting, a simple blurb stating she loved him and she was sorry for being a bitch, but to remember he was being a fucking tool as well.

Bernie smiled slightly, digging into his french toast and sausage links with gusto. (His pain medicine made him irrationally hungry at times.) For all her faults, in which there were many, Bernie did still love her as much as he hated her.