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"I can see this is causing you considerable agitation. But I think it's best if we examine his motives a little more closely. Narcissism is toxic, but it's important to realize that one is not responsible for the narcissist's behavior."
Kurapika clenches his knees in his hands and tries not to grind his teeth. Dr. Paradinight's office is cool, air conditioned with a silent central system. A cylindrical tank of tropical fish swim, unhurriedly, in never-ending circles. Kurapika wonders, for perhaps the 80th time, if the fish are real or maybe just some sort of perfected hologram, never needing to be fed or maintained. A large print of Frederic Remington's "Against the Sunset" is the sole artwork on the wall. Dr. Paradinight's collection of diplomas and degrees form a stark collage otherwise.
"I hate talk therapy," he blurts out. "I fucking hate this. Can't you just give me the prescription?"
The doctor blinks, but his expression remains bland. "Kurapika, we already discussed this. I can give you a refill of Gabapentin for your anxiety, but you cannot have Xanax anymore. I believe you know the reason why."
"Gabapentin doesn't do shit!" Kurapika unballs one of his fists; to his shock, he sees it is trembling uncontrollably.
"It doesn't have the same effect as Xanax, no," says the doctor. "But you are abusing alcohol. This is the only safe option you have available. Let's go over what happened with the Xanax to jog your memory, shall we?"
Kurapika struggles to control his shaking hands. He knows what happened. He took eight Xanax in four hours, washing them down with vodka.
"Luckily, you vomited," says Dr. Paradinight. "At your current weight, you could have died."
Kurapika weighs 120 pounds currently, due to a loss of appetite and the disconcerting lump in his throat that constricts swallowing. When he feels that he can eat, the only thing that is appetizing is a kind of multigrain flax/sesame seed cracker that he buys at the health food store. He tries to keep several boxes on hand in reserve, but if the last box is gone, it can be a day or two before Kurapika can get himself together to go purchase more.
Dr. Paradinight has urged him to dip the crackers in nut butter or hummus, anything to boost the nutritional value, but this only happens on days that Kurapika is feeling particularly ambitious. One week, in a rare burst of optimism, he bought six tubs of organic hummus in different flavors--jalapeno, red pepper, sun-dried tomato--and, after sampling them all, put them in the refrigerator, feeling pleased with himself. The tubs are still sitting there, a month later. Kurapika is afraid to open them and see what petri-dish havoc is being wreaked, so he pretends they don't exist. It's not as if he goes into the refrigerator all that often, anyway.
"All right." The doctor folds his hands. "Let's go back to discussing Mr. Morow." Dr. Paradinight has a disconcerting habit of referring to people in a formal, Yorknew Times journalist style, as if Hisoka were someone they were somehow required to respect.
"What is there to discuss about Hisoka?" asks Kurapika. "In the grand scheme of things, he was a bit player. To me, at least."
"You had mentioned to me that you felt some anger regarding what you considered to be gaslighting on his part," Dr. Paradinight says. "I think we need to dig into that a bit more. As well as the veracity of his connection to Mr. Lucilfer, while you were confiding certain things to him."
I'm going to scream, thinks Kurapika. God fucking help me if I don't get out of here, now. "I don't want to talk about Hisoka or Mr. Lucilfer today," he gasps out, barely controlling his hiss. "Can you give me the fucking prescription?"
The doctor stands up. "Kurapika," he says, walking to the couch and putting his hands on Kurapika's shoulders. "You need help with your alcoholism. I'm going to be blunt. Take a look in the mirror. When was the last time you took care of yourself? Showered, shaved...?"
A scraggly piece of hair falls into Kurapika's eyes. As he brushes it aside, he notices that the color--ordinarily a light blond--has darkened to a dingy mouse. "When was the last time you washed your hair?" drones Dr. Paradinight. "Kurapika, you don't look well at all. I know you dislike talk therapy, and I know you aren't happy with the course of medication right now. Unfortunately we need to continue as we are currently proceeding. However, what I'm going to do is suggest you try something different."
He goes to his desk and shuffles around in a drawer briefly. "Here." He hands Kurapika a printout. "I want you to attend a 12-step meeting. You don't have to participate actively. You can just go and sit in on it. But I need you to tell me you're going to try this, at least once. Okay?"
Kurapika looks at the printout. It has a list of various AA meetings--times and locales--in the area. Are you fucking kidding me? "Okay," he says. Anything to get out of here.
The doctor dangles a carrot. "Once you get the alcohol under control, we'll discuss a different track of medication. You can return to moderate benzo treatment, perhaps, if you are successful at quitting drinking."
Kurapika folds the paper and shoves it into his pocket. "Okay, Doc," he says. "I'll see you--"
"Next Thursday as usual. Good luck, Kurapika."
Kurapika returns home and, as usual these days, cannot find anything to settle upon to fill his afternoon hours. He's been working an early shift which has him on duty from 4 am to 1 pm, which keeps his mind blissfully occupied. However, once he is off work, nothing is appealing. He is unable to concentrate on a book, can't follow TV programs or movies, feels too exhausted to exercise. His phone used to fill up daily with concerned texts from friends and various members of the Hunter association. Kurapika stopped answering them--stopped the endless repetition of "I"m fine," "I'm busy," "My job is crazy right now"--and finally his phone remains silent except for work dictates.
Pouring himself a tumbler of Jack Daniels, he curls up on his bed and turns on the television. Clicking "on demand," he finds what he is looking for: A telecast of last year's Westminster Dog Show. Sipping the alcohol straight, he turns on the show and watches a mindless parade of canines prance around the ring. He's watched the show a dozen times by now.
"This is miniature poodle, number 404," the announcer says, in a jovial tone. Kurapika takes another gulp of whiskey and grimaces. The poodle, panting gregariously at the camera, suddenly reminds him of Hisoka. Nonsporting group. He sees Hisoka's face, falsely grave, in the amusement park. I think we should form an alliance. The awful mouthful of teeth, that grin. The way he spun in a flamboyant show of power in front of Chrollo, flinging his spider tattoo to the wind.
The poodle's pom-pom tail wags on screen. Fuck you, thinks Kurapika, fighting an urge to punch the wall. Fuck Mr. Lucilfer, too. He envisions the dog's eyes to be glowing yellow, catlike, agains the curly fur, rather than their actual ordinary dark brown.
The camera abruptly changes from the poodle to a different breed. "An ancient Japanese breed, the Shiba Inu is a little but well-muscled dog once employed as a hunter," cheerfully declares the announcer. Kurapika stares at the foxlike animal. This one puts him in mind of Chrollo--the sleek coat, pointed muzzle, the self-satisfied expression.
Kurapika jumps up in a fury. Choking down the final dregs in his glass, he hits the "power" button on the remote control with his thumb repeatedly until the TV goes black. Grabbing his jacket, he leaves his apartment, woozy from the liquor. Feeling around in his pocket, he unearths a linty flax cracker, puts it in his mouth and chews so he won't vomit on the sidewalk.
As he feels around for another cracker, he comes across the folded-up paper from the shrink's office, which he's already forgotten about. Oh well, what the fuck? He thinks. Looking at the paper, he sees there is a meeting several blocks away, at the Methodist church. It Works if You Work It: Working the Steps, it says, 4 p.m.
Kurapika glances at his phone. 3:45. Okay, fine. He sets off toward the church. Might as well get this over with. Maybe they will sign some sort of paper or something that proves I've been there, and I can give it to the doc. I need Xanax. This Gabapentin shit isn't doing a thing. He scratches his arms, which feel crawly.
As he approaches the church, he shakes his head to clear it. "Looking for the AA meeting?" someone says, kindly. "In the rectory, come on. First time?"
Kurapika follows the stranger. "You're in the right place, don't worry," they reassure him. "The first time is weird. But keep coming back."
Sure, sure. Kurapika nods. Whatever. He finds a seat toward the back of the room, waving away an offer of coffee in a styrofoam cup. The smell of the over-brewed liquid makes him nauseated.
Some guy--Kurapika dubs him "Leader Dude" in his head--gets up and walks to the front. "Welcome," says Leader Dude. "This is Working the Steps; for those of you who are new, this is probably a little further into the program than you might be ready for, but it's okay. You're in the right place. We're here to share stories, so you're welcome to listen and ask questions. Shall we start with the Lord's Prayer as an opener?"
Kurapika is already squirming in his seat, wondering how long this particular fresh hell will last. He glances to his right. A couple of empty chairs, some guy with a hat and a turtleneck, who makes the sign of the cross before joining in. Drama, thinks Kurapika, in mild disgust. He decides he hates everyone at this meeting. Although he knows the words to the prayer, he grimly refuses to recite them, choosing instead to grip the sides of his chair in a liquor-enhanced fury.
"Anyone new here?" says Leader Dude. His glance falls on Kurapika. "Hi, you're new, right? Want to introduce yourself to the group?"
Kurapika feels his eyes turning into glowing coals. Shaking his bangs over his forehead to hide this, he shrugs non-committally.
Leader Dude waits, then finally says, "Okay, maybe another time. Anyone else?" He holds up a small box. "I have Surrender Chips here for those who are ready to give up the high cost of low living. If you take one, it means just for 24 hours, you are agreeing to try a different way." He glances at Kurapika, who doesn't move. "We hand out chips for various lengths of sobriety. Has anyone passed 30 days here?" He begins to run through a gradually increasing number of days, up to months, and finally years.
Kurapika surreptitiously looks over at his neighbor, who is sitting erect and placidly observing the leader's monologue. "Very well, then," says Leader Dude. "If you are sober today, give yourself and your Higher Power a hand. Let's get to business then. My name is Pete and I'm an alcoholic. This afternoon, we'll be going over Step 8 as part of the 12-step tradition." He glances at Kurapika again. "For those who aren't familiar with the 12 steps, this is a process by which we work our sobriety. We won't have time to go over each one in detail right now, since this is a step-specific meeting in which we concentrate on the challenges of a single phase. But there is literature by the door which you can take and get caught up on."
Sure, sure, thinks Kurapika, a second time. He sighs and repositions himself in the metal chair.
"Okay. So, anyway. Step 8. 'We made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.'" Leader Dude looks around the room. "A lot of people think this is the most challenging step of all, especially followed by Step 9: 'Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.' This means you have to actually do some tough work. Call people up that you screwed over. Admit to bad behavior. Pay for things you've destroyed. Apologize to hearts you've broken."
Kurapika's neighbor scratches under his turtleneck, looks a little uncomfortable for the first time the meeting has started. He puts his hand up in the air.
"Good to see you here again," says Leader Dude. "You're actually on Step 8 right now? I know you had some valuable insights on identifying the nature of a higher power last week." He smiles. "What do you have to share with us this week?"
The seat neighbor stands up, says his name, which Kurapika--still in a liquor-hazed fog--does not quite catch. "I'm an alcoholic," he adds. "And an addict, and all sorts of things. I'm a professional sinner, shall we say." The room echoes with polite laughter. "Step 8. My issue here is, the list of persons I have harmed is so extensive I don't even know where to start."
"Well, you know what we say around these parts," says Leader Dude. "Easy does it. Great things can be accomplished without struggle, believe it or not. It might be helpful to start with the severity of harm, and work your way down."
"I've killed people," says Kurapika's neighbor. Kurapika blinks, looks around. Nobody appears surprised.
"Do you feel as if the justice system vindicated this for you?" Leader Dude is impassive.
"No," replies the stranger. "The last person I killed, it was particularly gory, and I did it for power and position. That's been my entire life to date."
"I don't know if we should discuss the specifics of this," says Leader Dude, but he is cut off.
"I blew up a building," the stranger says. He pulls out a sobriety chip from his pocket and fingers it. "Perhaps the worst thing I did was...well, I was part of a gang. I didn't do all this on my own."
"You need to make amends, like anyone else," Leader Dude says, gently. "We've already seen that alcohol and other forms of addiction don't make any moral distinctions, they strike saints just as equally as sinners."
"I don't know where to find some of the people I've harmed." Another scratch under the turtleneck, an adjustment of the hat. "Those that I've harmed are either afraid of me, or they're probably planning vengeance against me."
"If your amends put anyone in danger, including yourself, you can't make direct amends," says Leader Dude. His face turns sympathetic. "There are other avenues, however. I think perhaps maybe we could talk after the meeting more in detail about this, in order to give others a chance to share? Also," he adds. "Be open and willing. You never know when your chance may unexpectedly come. God has a way of surprising us at times."
Kurapika closes his eyes briefly. Gad, he thinks. Bunch of freaks. He wonders how much longer the meeting will last. Glancing at his phone, he estimates about another half hour. In an attempt to occupy his mind, he tries to remember which breed of dog won the Westminster show. Surprisingly, despite having watched the program so many times, he can't remember.
After several others have shared their--far less dramatic--challenges with the 8th step, Leader Dude calls the end to the meeting. As Kurapika is about to exit the building, Leader Dude stops him and asks him, once again, if he'd like to take a Surrender Chip.
When Kurapika shakes his head, the leader pats him on the back. "Just keep coming back, okay? It gets better. Do you want a piece of cake, by the way? We're celebrating someone's 5-year birthday. That means they've had 5 years sober," he explains.
Kurapika sighs. "Okay," he finally says. His stomach is roiling. He feels around in his pocket to see if there are any flax crackers left. Maybe a bit of cake won't hurt; will keep him from throwing up on the way home. Walking over to the kitchenette, he accepts a slice of the pastry.
"I'll be right back," says Leader Dude. "Have to use the restroom. Feel free to take some literature."
Kurapika forces himself to eat a few bites of cake, just to stem his nausea. As he stares, unfocused, at the wall, he suddenly becomes aware of someone standing directly next to him.
He turns. It's his seat neighbor, in the turtleneck and hat.
"Kurapika," says the man. Kurapika is wildly startled. Someone here knows my name?
He reaches out and touches Kurapika's shoulder. Kurapika pulls himself together, forces himself to focus, looks into the man's eyes, which are a dark shade of gray.
"Kurapika, I'm sorry."
The man walks out, without another word.