Julian's audio reading of this chapter is attached (in the video above).

The audio reading will be slightly different from the text, as it was made prior to editing.

—Robert Collier

The first week was the worst. My fear of death was completely eradicated after the first seven days of detox, because whatever hell there may have been in the afterlife, could not have come close to the pain I experienced in that hospital bed, as the toxins were slowly sweated, sneezed, and cried out of my body.

A full day after Brooke arrived to visit me, I was still convinced I was hallucinating or dreaming. But every time I opened my eyes to look for her—fully expecting nobody to be around—there she'd be, sat right next to me, always watching. After everything I'd put her through, she had come back for me. The least I could do, I thought, was try my hardest to make it another day for her. That was the only way I made it—taking each day as it came, one hour at a time, and hoping that the next would be a little bit better than the last.

Nobody could have understood it, without first being in my shoes.

It wasn't even a matter of willpower; to be on heroin was to be possessed.

Honestly, if Brooke hadn't been there, I wasn't sure how I would have made it. The constant beeping of my heart monitor, the middle-of-the-night blood pressure checks, and the twice daily barrage of questions about my symptoms had me going damn near stir crazy. I didn't know what to do with myself.

It felt like the battle was never going to be over, and instead of getting easier like everyone promised it would, it only ever got harder. The ridiculously stupid part of me had half a mind to bolt towards the door, run outside, and go use—not even to get high, just to feel normal again. I knew, however, that by doing that, I'd be letting Brooke go forever, and that wasn't a damn option.

Not.

A.

Damn.

Option.

I didn't know who had told her, probably Mason or Tommy, but I was grateful for whoever did. It wasn't that I wanted her to hurt, or to see me in the condition that I was in, but without her, I'd have eroded and given up completely.

She was my only motivation, and my only saving grace, to actually want to try.

Everything hurt. Absolutely everything. Every bone, every joint, every muscle, every inch of my body twinged in throes of anguish.

Getting up to have a wee hurt.

Turning over in bed hurt.

Dressing in a fresh hospital gown hurt.

It felt like I was participating in a marathon each time I stood up, because my bony legs couldn't bear the weight, light as I may have been.

To add to the terrible humiliation of it all, almost everything I ate went straight through me, or came back up, and I smelled wretchedly disgusting. My nose was constantly running, my eyes wouldn't stop watering, and my body was covered in sweat all of the time. Somehow, though, Brooke wasn't repulsed by me. She would get right under the covers with me in bed, kissing my face as if I were someone actually worth caring about. The way her beautiful brown eyes glowed as she watched me, had me beginning to think that maybe I was.

If it wasn't for the medications, I would have never been able to sleep. But the tablets—combined with being thoroughly drained, both mentally and physically—allowed me to get a few broken hours, here and there. Thank God for that, because the constant shakiness was wicked. Every night, Brooke would massage my arms, legs, and back. Her small hands worked gently and meticulously to alleviate much of the tight, twitching spasms. This always allowed me to breathe easier and close my tired eyes for a bit of rest.

That nurse, Nina, was alright. She seemed to like Brooke, and whoever liked Brooke was fine by me. I had been irritable and contentious toward Nina, especially before Brooke arrived, but she didn't seem to mind or take offense, really. As the days passed, I tried my best to be more amicable toward her. After all, it wasn't Nina's fault that I had allowed myself to get into such a disastrous mess. Out of all the nurses, I was glad that Nina was my main carer. She didn't visit the room to bother me too often, and mostly left me alone when I needed it.

By day six, much of my nausea had subsided, and that was when I started to get the strangest food cravings. Tommy was such a good sport, running out to the shops to pick up chips and curry, red velvet cake, bangers and mash, various fruits, and every flavour of tea under the sun (or clouds, as it were). It was a very nice change of pace from the usually chalky, unappetizing hospital meals I would've been left with otherwise.

Brooke wanted to go to the supermarket for me. Although she hadn't inhaled a single breath of fresh air since she arrived at St. Shepherd's, I grew noticeably and irrationally anxious just thinking about her leaving for an hour. She always agreed to stay, to curb my edgy restlessness and ease my troubled mind. It still didn't feel completely real, that she was there with me, so it spiked my blood pressure to think of her leaving for any length of time.

Every other day, I was wheeled downstairs to spend four wretched hours in dialysis, getting my filthy blood cleaned and recirculated into my body. If not for that, I wondered how long the heroin would've remained in my system. Whilst I was getting the procedure done, Brooke would stay behind in the regular hospital room, and I always wondered what the hell she did to pass the hours. Nearly every time I returned, I expected her to be gone... but she was always there, waiting for me, with a smile on her beautiful, worried face.

One day, whilst I was sat in the wheelchair, being taken back to my room from dialysis, I heard Brooke's laughter chiming through the hospital corridor. I asked the nurse to stop for a moment, just outside the door.

Michael McIntyre was on the television, and at opportune times, Brooke's giggles would resonate against the cold, white walls—making them and me feel warmer. Her voice was, without question, the turning thermostat in the freezing bleakness of my life. I breathed her in, and fed off of her inherent, exuded warmth.

Before, I had the audacity to be bitter, but she—after all of her heartache and disappointment—somehow found enough hope and goodness in life to be able to laugh.

It was then that I decided, once and for all, that I needed to do everything in my power to get healthy, so I could listen to that sound for as many days as I could.

...

"Do you want to shower?" she asked me one day after dialysis. There was a private bath in my hospital room, but I hadn't really been making good use of it.

"Not really," I admitted. "But I should do."

It was slowly, ever so excruciatingly slowly, getting easier to move around. But it still scared me to disrobe for a shower, for the lack of meat on my body made it difficult to withstand even a few seconds of cold air on my skin, without warm water cascading over me.

"Well, what will it take for you to want to shower then?" She held my hand.

"If you shower with me." I laughed at my own joke.

"Done," she said, and stood from the chair next to my bed.

"Wait, what?" I must've looked daft. My eyes widened as I slowly took in her earnest features. "Really?"

"Really," she said, still staring at me with a small smile.

My quick tongue was momentarily halted, from being completely thrown by her response. "You're serious?"

"I'm serious." She held her hand out for mine. "You coming or what?"

...

Brooke helped me out of my socks and started the shower, making sure the water stream was extra hot for me, before telling me to lift my arms. She pulled off my hospital gown. Although she'd seen me naked before, many times before, this felt so different. My face flushed as she forced a smile and tried not to stare at my emaciated body.

"Step in," she said.

And I did.

The hot water pelted my skin. It should have hurt, but it actually felt incredible. I couldn't figure out why I had put this off for so long.

With my back turned to her, Brooke undressed and stepped into the shower with me. She pulled the curtain closed behind her and squeezed some body wash onto a loofah.

"I feel like a child," I admitted with a slightly nervous chuckle. "Or an old, old man."

"You're both," she joked and kissed my neck, at the tip of my spine.

Like so many times before, I felt the irrefutable spark of a current between us. I would've never, ever been able to get enough of that sensation. Her lips on my skin was the greatest feeling I could have ever experienced and I immediately wanted more.

She rendered every other high, pale and useless in comparison.

Brooke worked the suds over my hunched back, my thin arms, and my weak, bony legs. I noticed her spending a bit more time washing the skin around my anchor tattoo, and hoped she felt as much pride from seeing it etched onto my skin, as I did from wearing it, indelibly, for her. Brooke rubbed over the inscribed image, as if she were testing its permanence... her permanence. But no matter how the water may have tried to wash it away, this ink would always, and endlessly, remain.

I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Brooke's touch was noticeably softer as she trailed my scars from the orphanage, along my lower back. Before, I never wanted anyone to touch me there, but her gentle fingers felt good on the raised skin, and suddenly... I didn't mind anymore.

I grew more nervous, wondering what she was thinking, especially as she delicately worked the soap over each scab and dotted injection site. Brooke must have been so disappointed and disconcerted, but she said... nothing. The only sound was that of the water raining over our bodies. All the time, her touch remained soft. She scrubbed me as if I were a fine piece of porcelain—priceless, fragile, and prone to scratching.

When she was finished with the back of me, she turned me around to face her. I tried my best to keep my eyes on hers. Dark, wet hair stuck to her flushed cheeks, and I couldn't help but to stare at the water droplets trickling down her collarbone.

She was so beautiful, so selfless, and I didn't deserve her.

Her eyes didn't leave my gaze as she reached for the bottle of shampoo and poured some into her palm, then worked it through my hair.

Damn it, eyes above the neck.

Eyes above the neck.

Her soft fingers massaged the soapy suds into my scalp, and through my long strands, collecting all of the dirt and letting it circle down the drain beneath us. Instinctively, my eyes closed at her gentle touch. She didn't know it then, but Brooke was cleansing the very soul of me.

Washing away my fears.

Washing away my agony.

Washing away my self hatred.

Before I was quite ready to leave my shower with her, Brooke stepped out, but she left the hot water running over my frail body.

"Where are you going?" I called out to her, peeking through the curtain.

"Stay there for a minute," she called back, from further inside the hospital room.

When Brooke returned, she was dressed in jeans and a pink t-shirt that I'd never seen her in before.

"Those are new." I motioned up and down her body.

"Nina gave them to me." She shrugged. "I didn't bring any changes of clothes, so..."

"You look better in it than she ever would." I eyed her and wondered how the hell I got so lucky.

"It's just jeans and a t-shirt." She laughed. "Besides, I'm half her age. That's not a fair comparison."

"Still," I said.

My living, breathing angel. As I was stood there, gazing at her, my heart drummed to a peculiar melody.

Brooke caught me staring. I answered the question in her soft, tired eyes.

"You're so beautiful," I whispered.

She inhaled, through the small space between her lips. A quiet moment passed, as Brooke collected herself.

"Okay, Casanova," she finally replied.

Brooke smiled, and snickered softly just once, but I could still see her cheeks reddening at my simple compliment.

After all of this time, after all I'd put her through, I could still make her feel something.

That, in itself, was amazing to me.

Brooke held a huge, warm towel open for me.

"You ready to get out?" asked my darling.

I turned the shower off with my bony knuckles and stepped out, expecting to hit a cold floor. Instead, there was a warm towel beneath my dripping toes. As I looked down, Brooke wrapped my skinny body in one towel, allowing it to absorb the excess water. Right after, she covered my head in another warm towel, and rubbed the moisture out of my tangled hair.

"Brooke." My lips were slightly parted.

"Yes, Jules?" She pulled a fresh, blue hospital gown over my head, and had me step into clean socks.

"Marry me." It wasn't the way I envisioned asking her, but my wish came out of my mouth regardless.

"What?" She stood back up, so that we were face-to-face again, and laughed.

"I want to marry you." My eyes closed, awaiting her refusal.

"Normally, one would have a ring," she joked, not at all taking me seriously.

"I'll get you any ring you want," I promised her. "As soon as we leave this place. Just... marry me, Brooke."

"Okay, Jules, somebody needs to sleep. How much medicine are you on? Did Nina accidentally double your dosage today or something?" She simpered and led me back to the bed, covering my frail body in blankets, before shivers and chills could find me.

I would ask her again, properly, when I finally had a ring for her. If it was that which was necessary, in order for her to take me seriously, then that was what I would do, I decided.

She deserved nothing less from me.

...

When the seventh day arrived, my legs were still restless. I still ached all over as well, but Brooke told me that some colour had returned to my face. I hadn't even looked at myself in the mirror, so I simply took her word for it. According to Nina, I had gained nearly half a stone, and my blood pressure was normal again—the low end of normal, but normal all the same.

These little victories were small sparks of hope... like the tips of matches brushing against sandpaper, and hinting at a flame awaiting its full ignition. Its full potential.

My beard had grown out of control by then. Brooke said it was tickling and itching her face as we cuddled in the hospital bed. I didn't really want a beard anyway, so I asked Brooke to shave me. Being her, she quickly equipped herself with a stainless steel bowl of hot water, a wet rag, and a fresh razor. Carefully, gingerly, she traced my jaw with the blade, leaving a trail of hairless, soft skin behind.

Not a single nick on my face proved how meticulous she was in her carefulness.

"Where'd you learn to shave a lad's face so expertly?" I ran a hand over my bare skin, enjoying the new textural sensation. "I can't even shave myself this closely."

Brooke was sat next to me on the bed, planting kisses all along my jawline, cheeks, and chin.

"Much better." She smiled at her work whilst simultaneously teasing me.

"Now, the beard's gone... but what if I wanted to keep tickling you?" I remembered her aversion to it.

"Why would you want to do that?" she asked hesitantly.

"To hear this." I ran my fingertips along her side, over the fabric of her shirt, and she squealed in intoxicating laughter.

Just then, Nina knocked on the opened door, alerting us to her presence. Brooke removed herself from the bed, to sit in the chair beside me.

Damn Nina ruining the moment.

"Dinner is served," Nina jested, as she placed two plates on the bedside table. "One for you as well, Brooke."

"Wow, thank you!" She eyed the plate gratefully, as if it were some big gesture of kindness. "You didn't have to."

"I know." Nina smiled, exchanging a look with my girl that I didn't really understand, before rolling the cart back out into the hallway.

"That was so nice of her," Brooke noted again, whilst uncovering her tray.

"Yeah," I grumbled and rolled my eyes.

"Why the attitude?" she asked, whilst grinning—for some reason—at my sourness.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm being difficult." I rubbed my eyes. "It's just the withdrawals making me fussy and intolerable."

"But you're not short with me," she pointed out.

"Yes, that's because I love you," I explained and listened to her laughter.

"I see." She nodded with a knowing smile. "So, you have to love someone in order to be amicable toward them."

"Precisely." I was being a total smartarse, a sure sign that I was starting to feel a bit better.

The dinner that night was baked chicken, cream of celery soup, rolls, steamed vegetables, and herbal tea. Since I'd arrived at the hospital, it was actually the best dinner I had there yet. Or perhaps it just tasted better because she was there, and we were sharing in it together.

After we ate and the plates were collected, Brooke snuggled in the hospital bed with me, and we watched late night programmes. She caught most of the humour, and only had to ask about a handful of colloquialisms. Under the thick blankets, she shared her warmth with my beaten, yet astonishingly resilient, body. It was the simplest thing, and somehow, it meant the world to me.

These moments, that anyone else might have taken for granted.

To share the small space of the mattress with her.

To admire her relaxed, gentle, breathy accent in my ear.

To hear her laughter as she nuzzled the curve of my neck.

To smell her soft, coconut scented hair beneath my nose.

It was just what I needed to want to live another minute, another hour, and another day.

Somehow, whilst on drugs, I had forgotten how good life could be. I'd forgotten that everything wasn't always as bad as it seemed. How to love, and the reasons for loving her, had been buried beneath the surface for so long. But I was finally uncovering everything again... uncovering her again.

Teetering on the brink of death, then being brought back to life once more, had some interesting side effects. I started seeing everything, and everyone, more clearly. Some things that used to matter, no longer did. And other things that always mattered, suddenly mattered exponentially more.

As pitiful and revolting as I was, Brooke still looked at me as if I were the only man in the entire world.

Her big brown eyes were aglow when my face showed hints at normal signs of life and vitality, and her smile existed as if I'd never inflicted any of this agony upon her. Brooke shared in every pain, and every happiness, along my journey to recovery—not judging me at all, just showing me, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she was there to help, and she was there to stay.

It was all that I had ever wanted. I didn't try to understand why Brooke still loved me so, or why she had decided to forgive me, without question. For once, I just accepted it without a fight. And without her, I would've had no fight within me left at all. She gave me strength. My anchor steadied me, as she had always done before.

Seven days.