PRISON BREAK.
Michael/Sara (Lincoln/Sara FRIENDSHIP)
Fuck.
Why drugs, monkeys, good girls and Pink Floyd don't mix.
(A/N: Many thanks to my friend KT. She knows why. Any mistakes are mine. This story is based loosely around what either I have experienced or have watched other people experience. Also, Sara is not using morphine in this story because she no longer is a doctor, and I don't think she'd have much access to it without her job. She now uses heroin because it's the closest drug to morphine that is easily available on the street. Thank you please.)
It's so hot. Too hot. Lips blistering, skin burning, palms sweating, hair sticking to your back ...
He bites your neck at the curve near your shoulder and he pushes himself as close to you as your clothes allow, and then just a little bit further than that. He never talks to you during this little stolen moments when the guards back's are turned and no ones watching, you both crush together and just mesh and it makes you burn in all the wrong places, because good girls don't have hot and fast sex with cons in the prison hospital.
You are so lucky you were never a good girl.
He stops and smiles at you, his forehead resting on yours, making you grin ridiculously back and pull him back down to kiss you again ...
But that was months ago.
Once a junky, always a junky ... pathetic, no self control ... moving from one drug to another ... they found her overdosing on morphine, can you imagine? On the floor of her office! ... Rehabilitation, 28 days...
FUCK REHAB! You never fucking went; having a Vice-President Daddy does have its fucking privileges. Fuck, fuck, fuckity FUCK. Just fuck in general. Your life's a fucking mess, you don't remember the last time you were sober or ate anything and jobs and careers (and lives) happen to other people. You shoot up and get smashed as much as humanly possible, and you FUCKING LOVE IT. LOVE IT.
You haven't seen your father in about 2 months, but who cares anyway? It's not like he'd be any fun, because he's just shake his head and tut, leaving you lying in your own vomit, passed out.
("Teenagers these days!")
Well, it is important to spend quality time with the family, isn't it?
Actually, thinking on, you haven't seen anyone but your dealer in the past two months, and this makes you shake your head, laughing out loud to yourself. Oh Sara, you think, you used to be so popular. So bloody fucking popular. You wipe the tears pouring down your face with the back of your hand.
Oh, fuck.
You manage to stop crying after an hour or so, and then wander into your room and find the other bag of heroin you bought earlier.
You're playing music loudly. Like, really loud. Its 3 am, your wearing a white wifebeater and black panties and your dancing in your kitchen. You're stoned out of your breadbox and its making you laugh manically at the toaster. Your pretty sure someone's knocking on your door, so you turn the CD player up louder and scream a well placed 'FUCK YOUUUU!' at the front door, and carrying on dancing.
The banging gets louder.
You sigh, press pause and prance out of the kitchen, though the lounge until you get to the front door, and you peer out the spy hole.
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING FUCK!
(The understatement of the century.)
There's group of men you know very well standing outside the front door to your flat. You smile and then scream as high pitched as you can -
"FUCK OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!"
But damn it feels good to be like this again!
In fact, you feel so good, you go back into the kitchen, start playing the music again and you hardly feel the needle when it slips into your arm. You sing along in broken lines and don't hear the front door click open or see the 3 men staring at you slumped against your cabinets, needle still stuck in your arm.
Someone's moving the hair out of your face its tickling your nose. You want them to stop touching you (no one touches you now) but you find you can't move properly, your far too wrecked. You moan slightly and mumble a very slurred 'fuck off' at whoever's doing it, and then promptly pass out.
You somehow wake up on your bed, not remembering anything that happened earlier. You move slowly, so not to make your headache worse, and you pad quietly into the kitchen and find an almost full bottle of vodka amongst all the strewn beer cans, burnt spoons, needles and empty bottles that are littered across your table. You open the bottle and raise it straight to your lips and start drinking. You get to half a bottle before you feel the impulse to be sick, so you start to slow down, until nearly all the vodka is gone. Then slam the bottle down on the table and then spin around quickly when you hear Sucre clapping and see Lincoln staring at you strongly.
You drag the back of your hand across your lips. Why aren't you surprised that they're here again?
"What?"
Surce jumps right in.
"That is the single most impressive thing I have ever seen in my life!!! Damn girl, how is a skinny little twig like you still standing after that? That was nearly a fucking bottle! That's fucking crazy man!"
You smirk and let out a chuckle.
"I needed to get the monkey off my back"
Sucre looks slightly confused, so you sigh and say very patronisingly - "I don't have enough heroin inside me at the moment, and seeing as it takes 5 minutes to cook a spoon, but only 1 minute to drink, I'll go with the vodka UNTIL I find a needle."
And with that, you rip off the pants someone ever-so-kindly out on you and the outsize t-shirt until your back into your original clothing from the night before, because it suddenly feels too hot in the room, and your skin feels all strange and rubbery - Ahaa, Michael's just entered the room (and it doesn't help that your not bombed out of your skull yet)
Brushing past him, you put Pink Floyd on low for your headache, and forgetting about the men in the room silently watching you, you slide a needle into your arm you make surprisingly quickly with your back turned to any prying eyes, and then you sink slowly to the floor and sigh, because this is what you needed ...
You sit with your back on a cupboard and watch the music in the air, eyes looking dead in your skull. You manage to drag your legs up and rest your head on your knees, and then you start to laugh at the bin as it talks to you about how much it hates tea bags. Apparently they're too splodgy, whatever that means.
What is it with your fucking kitchen? It always fucking talks to you.
Vodka and heroin. You swear, if you could actually legally bottle this, you'd be fucking raking it in.
The bin's mouth gets wider and wider and its teeth grow and grow and its suddenly not as funny as it is terrifying. You try to move away but your legs are dead so you scream and scream and scream.
The men look at you, helpless, not knowing what to do.
You wake up to a whispered conversation about you. Rolling over, you try to block out his voice as it circles in your head, making you feel woozy and all shaky.
"We can't just leave her here like this! She needs serious help!"
"Well we can't stay here Michael! It's only a matter of time before someone comes here to check on her."
"Look around Linc! Look at the state of this flat, look at Sara! No one cares about her! No one! Her fridge is empty but she has enough vodka to see her through the next Ice Age, and her lounge and guest rooms are spotless, but it looks like World War fucking Three in her kitchen and bedroom! Doesn't that strike you as a little odd? Don't you get it? No one is coming! We could stay here until Doomsday and no one would ever know because no one cares!!!"
Quiet.
"We need to help her, man. Can't you feel it? She's dying inside"
You had no idea Sucre could actually see beyond the obvious, and then are truly horrified that if Sucre can see it, the whole bloody world must be able to. For about 3 seconds, because honestly, you have nothing more to be ashamed of now. Hell, Michael's already seen you half naked with a heroin needle sticking out your arm, it's not humanly possible for it to get any worse.
(Except, it really can)
You blearily open one eye and watch the 3 men talk about you like your not there (Awww, just like Daddy!) Michael has his head in his hands, and is sat on your desk, feet on the chair. Sucre is directly opposite, leaning on the wall, and last but not least, Lincoln was sat on a chair dragged from the kitchen.
He starts talking again, mostly to himself.
"How did this happen? How? What happened to her that made her like this? This is all my fault ..."
You close your eyes and smile, glad he's finally getting it. You drift, between sleep and rest, their conversation washing over you, lulling you back to sleep.
You never did have the best luck, so you miss the most important part.
(Detox. We can detox her, and take her with us, that way we can keep her clean and use her medical skills. We need a doctor Linc, and you know it.)
Your fate decided two feet in front of you, and you're unconscious, completely unaware.
But you do get a vague idea what's happening when you wake up, because for the first time in nearly 4 months, you can actually see the colour of the carpet in your room, and when you stumble into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes, you see the kitchen is spotless. You stare. It must have taken them ages ... You feel that familiar burn across your back, and you lurch forward, feet unsteady, hands scrambling for the little bag of oblivion you know you won't find. You must have knocked yourself out for over a day ... Doesn't stop you looking, on your hands and knees, pathetically searching and messing up all the neat and ordered cupboards but you can't find it oh god oh god oh god your going to throw up your skin is crawling and your head throbs and WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR HERION? WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT?? You spin around, your eyes wild and see Michael watching (you felt it singe across your back, remember?) and you stagger toward him, and very politely, ask him what the fucking fuck is he fucking doing, fucking taking your fucking heroin please? He doesn't say anything, but something moves behind his eyes.
(Why isn't he listening?) Michael, please, I just want to feel it, please, PLEASE, just give it me back, please (his face hardens, your little hands banging against his chest) Michael, I'm not fucking kidding, give it me back. Give it me back! I need it, I need it! (What little dignity you had left just shredded itself into a thousand pieces) Your eyes are tearing up and your voice is breaking and your hands are still beating into his chest and he still won't give it you.
You start shrieking, but he won't budge. You start to cry for real now, your hands never stopping (make him get it, make him understand) His arms wrap around you and presses you close to him, and memories of the sick bay flashes in your eyes until suddenly your so angry you can't see straight.
"Get the fuck of me! Don't fucking touch me you fucking traitorous lying patronising bastard DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! Get off GET OFF GET OFF!"
You pleased to see that the huge amounts of drugs haven't removed your higher vocabulary.
He releases you and you drop to the floor, your face smacking the cool tiles. Its funny, you think as the pain blossoms from your cheek bone to your skull, but god you spent a lot of time on your kitchen floor.
You can't get back up; you legs have seemingly decided to stop working. Your feeble attempts make even you laugh so you just stay there, laughing hysterically until the tears roll down your face in waves.
Damn that toaster, its mocking you.
Oh god, your life. What a fucking train wreck.
Why are you always crying?
Strong arms haul you up and your being carried like a baby, because you can't do it yourself (what else is fucking new) You turn your head and sob into the chest you were beating on 2 minutes ago.
He stands you upright and you wobble madly for a second or two. He hands are tingly-y as he strips you down, all clinical interest until his knuckles scrap up your side as he pushes the wifebeater over your head.
You shiver.
He plonks you down in the bath, the warm water spilling onto the floor. He hands you soap, a flannel and shampoo.
"Scrub."
The sheer amount of dust that comes off you is astonishing. You watch, amazed, and you rub the flannel over the track marks on your left arm, making them bleed, as the crimson blood trickles down to your wrist, dripping from your fingers.
You turn to look at Michael, feeling his eyes on you again, taking in your rake thin body covered in cuts and bruises, back curved over, knees up, left hand up as the blood pooled in the palm. He's sat on the toilet seat, standing guard encase your naughty and don't wash behind your ears.
Fucker.
You're not even attempting to cover your body in front of him, because you are so not bothered about anything right now, because your skin is starting to itch in that way again that promises that you won't be sleeping for a while.
You lie down, leaning against the back panel of the bath, and sigh. You don't remember the last time you bothered your arse washing. Or eating. Or sleeping. You look down at your body and amuse yourself by counting how many ribs you can see trying to poke out your skin. You reach 13 and stop because it just gets too depressing.
You look like you're dead. Lovely. At least your hairs clean, and you decide that most dead people don't have that going for them, so it's a start.
You flick you hand down, watching the blood swirl in the water, then pick up the flannel, and wash behind your ears.
You pull on new pants and a surprisingly clean wifebeater you found in your drawers and amble into the kitchen, when you hear noises coming from the living room. You pad quietly and stand in the doorway, watching Sucre, Lincoln and Michael watch the game you didn't know was on tonight (mostly because you couldn't give a flying pig about football and you don't actually know the date, or what day of the week it is. Or, as it turns out, what month it is.)
They all stare, transfixed as someone does/kicks something, and you realise this is the perfect opportunity to find something to make this disgusting feeling go away. You creep back into the kitchen like a baddie from a cartoon and as quietly as you can, you search the cupboards for anything remotely alcoholic or narcotic. You come up short in the cupboards, but smile as you think about your hidden stash around the apartment, in case of emergencies.
And boy howdy, this is a fucking emergency.
You look behind you, double checking that your on your own, reach behind the microwave and pull out a half bottle of cheap vodka, and run like the devil back into your bedroom, being careful not to slam the door. You pull of the seal, open it and start drinking. The monkey gets lower and lower on your back until it fucks off completely; no doubt off to find someone else to torture.
You drain the bottle, and shake your head, trying not to vomit, and then lie on your bed. The room spins lazily. You hum to yourself, and you hear knocking on the door.
"Sara, are you in there? What are you doing?"
You giggle and yell out -
"Masturbating!" like its the most natural thing in the world and you start laughing again, unable to stop, and the door bangs open, and Lincoln, a slightly flushed looking Surce and a stony-faced Michael are stood in the doorway. You roll on your back and look at them, laughing at how weird they look like upside down.
"How does she keep getting trashed?"
Sucre sounds amazed, and this makes you laugh harder. Michael sighs, and moves forward to pick up the empty bottle from the bed, and then throws it to Lincoln, who then takes it out of the room. Michael looks at Sucre and he walks out the room.
Michael shuts the door.
You sigh. Here it comes, another pathetic 'what-are-you-doing-to-yourself-your-so-much-better-then-this' lecture BULLSHIT you've heard a million times of teachers, friends and shrinks and you mentally start playing a song in your head, attempting to drown out whatever he has to say.
But what he does say shocks you into listening to him.
"Sara, as of right now, you are detoxing. Cold turkey. Absolutely no medical help at all, no painkillers, no nothing. You think before was bad? Wait until its four days from now, and you've gone over 72 hours without pumping crap into your body. Its going to be hell, and you're going to hate me, but I'm only doing it because I love you, though only god himself knows why."
He sighs and you're in complete shock. Detox? Fuck THAT. He sees the incredulous look on your face and smiles slightly.
"I've disconnected the phone, found all of your crap and destroyed it, locked the door, hid the key and got enough food to last about 4 weeks. Do you have any other questions?"
(Ladies and Gentleman, we have just lost cabin pressure.)
You let out a shaky breath, unable to believe this is happening.
"Do you always have a plan for everything?" You ask, and feel a stab of something when he looks at the floor.
He then looks up.
"Yes" he answers evenly, and takes two strides toward you and kisses you hard on the mouth, and god you forgot how good this feels until he suddenly stops and pulls himself away from you.
He looks you dead in the eye and you want to kiss him again.
"Go to sleep Sara, your really going to need it."
The light goes off and the door slams shut behind him, and its only later when your almost asleep his words come running back to you -
Love?
What the HELL is going on?
It's dark when you wake up, with a gasp, sitting bolt upright with your hands clawing at your chest. You don't remember what you were dreaming about, but you know it wasn't nice.
You shake your head like a dog with water in its ears and shudder. You don't feel well. More accurately, you're going to be sick. Right now. You dash to the bathroom and vomit black bile until you start to dry heave, and you now feel disgusting. You wipe your mouth and flush the toilet, using the handle to help you stand up.
Big mistake.
You stand up and the room spins widely and suddenly you're back on the floor, chucking up all the nothing that's in your stomach. You groan and slump against the toilet, reminding yourself to breathe.
After about 5 minutes you stop shaking enough to drag yourself upright and not looking at the mirror, you scrub your mouth out with toothpaste and mouth wash until your tongue feels numb and too big for your mouth.
You swilling down the sink when you accidentally look in the mirror, something you haven't done for along time. Your skin looks strange, not saggy but not right for your face. You're beyond pale and your eyes are shrunken in your head. Your hair looks lank and lifeless, (not a good thought seeing as you only washed it yesterday) and you're amazed at how much weight you've lost. You actually look like a skeleton. You can see practically every bone in your body and even your knickers are too big for you.
To cut a very horrifying story short, you look like shit. You feel like shit.
When was the last time you ate? You cast your mind back, trying to remember, but you just can't. You know you haven't eaten since 'the boys' showed up and that was about 2 days ago. You must have eaten something ... Aha, yes, you ate all the purple Skittles in a economy size bag a few days ago. Go you, eating right. Maybe the Skittles count as one of your five-a-day fruits and/or vegetables your meant to eat. The purple colour must indicate some kind of fruit ...
Oh yeah, like what? Purpleberry, that well known fruit? Shut up.
God, now your arguing with yourself. Fanfuckingtastic.
And if this wasn't bad enough, you're starting to get that feeling in your skin again. The humming and the tingling. This is so not going to be a good day. You lie down on the cool tiles of the floor and try to think about something, but nothing's connecting and all you can concentrate on is the way your skin is itching, like there's something crawling inside it.
You start scratching you left arm, near your shoulder, where it feels the worst. You know if you could just make the itching stop, you'd be fine, you'd be able to function, but its itching so bad that it hurts now, and when you pull you hand away you see it's covered in blood.
Oh.
You've managed to scratch off a fair amount of skin and now your arm's basically pissing blood. It runs down your pale skin and starts pooling on the white tiles, like some strange modern art piece.
You find your flannel and press it to the wound, hissing when you realise there's still soap on it. It doesn't feel nice, but the coolness of the damp fannel sooths it slightly, making it easier for you to breathe again.
You don't know how much time you spent there, sitting on the bathroom floor wearing nothing but your mismatched bra and panties (the wifebeater vest got covered in vomit) with a flannel pressed against your arm, staring at nothing, but when you look up you see Lincoln boring a hole into you with his eyes, looking sad.
(What is it with the eyes in that family? There magnetic or something)
You lift your head up and look at him, deciding that life on the lamb suits him, so you tell him so. He smiles down at you and crouches on the floor, in front of you.
"How long have you been addicted then?" he asks, in a no-bullshit kind of way, and you find it very refreshing, so you decide to talk for while (anything to distract you from the way the skin is trying to crawl of your back)
You give him very short answers, because it's hurting your head to think about things. He starts talking again, but he soft voices rumbles in your ears and suddenly you're very sleepy even though you couldn't have been up for more than an hour or so, and you nod off gently.
Unfortunately, by this time, Lincoln was sitting cross-legged, still directly in front of you, talking about something or other, and when you actually go to sleep, you fall forward, face down on his lap.
Even more unfortunately, Michael chooses this time to walk into the bathroom.
When Sucre tells you about it later on, weeks from now, you decide you are very lucky you fell asleep.
You wake up in your bed again, and its dark again when you look out the window. Where you tried to rip the skin of your arm has been rather clumsily gauzed and has a white bandage tied around it. Its pretty much like before, only this time you don't throw up in the bathroom, because you can't even feel your legs. You throw up in the bin at the side of your bed, covering used needles and empty bottles in green but oddly black bile.
Another difference: You have an audience this time too.
Yay! You always did like throwing up in front of the man who you've liked for so long you don't remember what its like to not like him.
God, no wonder you're single.
You groan, throw your arm over your eyes and pray he'll go away so you don't have to deal with him today (not now, not tomorrow, and not ever)
He doesn't say anything, just watches you from the doorway.
You snap. Your head's throbbing and your stomach's aching and you can't stop twitching for fuck's sake, and if you're feeling a tad pissed off it's hardly your fault, it is? It's bloody Michael's.
"What, Michael, what do you want? Are you fucking happy now?"
And it turns out this wasn't the brightest idea you've ever had, because his head snaps up and there's fire in his eyes when he stalks toward you, until he's at the end of the bed, looming over you and you suddenly feel like your 9 years old again.
His lip curling, and he starts talking to you in a deliberately low voice -
"Yes Sara, I'm incredibly happy now, god, couldn't you tell? I just love watching you throwing up in the bin. How couldn't I enjoy that? I like watching you scratch yourself bloody. That's sexy. I especially enjoy the random twitches you get when your body is screaming out for more heroin, yes, it's very attractive Sara. And I take the most joy in the fact that I caused all this as well. There's nothing like turning a beautiful, intelligent and strong woman into a strung out heroin junkie. Makes me feel like a man."
He snarls the last part, and looks at you with such disgust and disappointment and sadness that you can't bare to be anywhere near him.
You bolt.
You end up in the bathroom, slamming the door behind you and throwing the lock. You close your eyes and slide down the door, until you're sat on your arse with your knees up.
Someone coughs, and your head snaps up.
You see Lincoln, half turned from the sink, with shaving foam covering half of his face, razor still in the air.
You sigh. How can things get any worse?
"You wanna talk about it?"
Like that, apparently.
Oh, bollocks.
You listen. He talks. You talk. He listens. It's a big talking and listening thing. You start twitching again about half way through the conversation, and he pretends not to notice, which was nice of him. You then start tapping your fingers and shaking your foot, focusing in on the mirror behind him, not really paying attention to what you're saying. Your voice tunes in and out of your ears, and garbled information floats toward you -
"And I was so high, I didn't even know I'd taken the police car home - Speedballing, did you ever do that? Yeah, and then I yelled out 'I'm not coming out until I put my pants on! The looks I got ... -"
Strangely, his voice doesn't fade out, and sticks, forcing you to listen.
You don't like it, and start drumming your fingers harder on the floor. Your forefinger nail splits. Lincoln stops talking, and just watches you, and then is pulling your hair out of your face as even more bile makes its way into the toilet.
Where is that stuff coming from?
He lets you have a little privacy as you wash yourself jerkily in the sink, scrubbing your mouth out again, and returns 5 minutes later, with a can of fizzy crap just loaded with sugar and a candy bar. You raise an eyebrow. Eating in the bathroom? You weren't aware you were that disgusting yet.
Lincoln catches your look and raises his eyebrow back.
"What? Too good to eat in the bathroom?"
You bristle.
"Certainly not!"
You grab the candy bar and rip it open. He looks at you so you take a big bite and smirk at him. He laughs, and then you laugh.
You take your time, doctor training whispering in your ear, telling you to eat slowly, your stomach can't handle too much at once ...
You chew thoughtfully, your twitches and ticks leaving you alone for a little while.
You blurt out what you were thinking before you had time to stop yourself.
"Tell me about Michael"
Lincoln smiles at you and starts talking about the first time Michael fell in love.
It makes you cry.
The story, talking about Michael, the withdrawal ... Everything adds up and the flood gates open and you throw yourself at Lincoln and cry and cry and cry. Lincoln doesn't seem to mind (he's been through it all before) and you stay wrapped in his arm until you can breathe again.
You pull away, stretch, yawn, and grin at Lincoln, who smiles back.
"I'm hungry"
Then Lincoln grins, and you wonder if you should be nervous. He yanks open the bathroom door and yells into the kitchen -
"SUCRE! GET YOUR CHEF HAT ON!"
Your eyes widen in fear.
As it turns out, Sucre is an excellent cook. He smiles gently at you when you tip toe into the kitchen and sit down at the breakfast bar. He places a small bowl of noodles in front of you and hands you a fork. Suddenly you're fucking starving but manners, manners, and you eat slowly, looking up at Sucre almost shyly, who asks you what you think.
You hand the bowl back and he fills it again, and places it down with a flourish, which makes you smile. Lincoln demands some. He gets it and asks you if you fancy eating in the bathroom. You smile but Sucre looks horrified. He then starts ranting about how disgusted he is a rich white woman like you doesn't even own a spice rack, which actually makes you laugh out loud. He seems pleased by this and then places a glass of more fizzy crap in front of you and you drain it, feeling sorta happy for the first time in a long time.
That, of course, couldn't have lasted.
Michael enters the room and you tense up. His eyes cut to you and feel sick again. You excuse yourself and walk quietly back to your room (someone cleaned the bin, thank god) and try to sleep.
Apparently, the monkeys back and he's more pissed off then ever! How could you forget the worst thing about detoxing is the nights?
You toss and turn and toss and turn and fidget and twitch and hallucinate for a while, and then decide there's no way in hell you're going to sleep tonight.
You pad into the living room and see Lincoln watching some film about alien invasions or some crap like that, and plonk yourself down next to him. You're still wearing a wifebeater and pink panties.
"Are you ever going to change?" He asks, eyes not moving from the TV.
"No" You reply, and pick up the bowl of chips resting between you, curl your feet up behind you and start watching the film.
You both stare at the TV. You're mesmerized because you have forgotten what TV was like, seeing as you haven't turned it on for over 4 months. You forgot how bright it is. It's beginning to hurt your eyes.
Lincoln interrupts your train of thought.
"Couldn't sleep?"
He still hasn't taking his eyes of the screen, apparently captivated by the hot alien princess, despite the green and flaky skin.
"No" You say quietly. You munch on the chips and take a slurp of Lincoln's Coke Cola and then he does turn around and look at you, you see in your peripheral vision, because it's your turn to stare at the TV like nothing is happening.
You turn and look at the back of the living room, watching the walls melt and a baboon scream at you for a little while, and then Lincoln's soothing voice in your ear -
"Look at the TV. Focus on the TV. It's not real, its not real ... "
You curl up into him and start crying again, only silently into his side, and you aren't aware of Michael watching you both from the door frame, but Lincoln is.
You wake up with the sun behind the curtains and a throbbing behind your eyes. You feel so hung-over. Sucre is singing in the kitchen whilst making food, and you can smell it and oh god!
You make it to the bathroom this time, and throw up for what feels like hours. You stagger to the sink and brush your teeth until the gums bleed. You splash water on your face and move into the kitchen, and throw yourself on the breakfast bar when a black coffee materializes in front of you, and then dry toast.
You smile your thanks at Sucre, only realising its not Sucre but Michael. You were wondering why he stopped singing...
You stare down at your toast and sip your coffee. Why are you still so mad at him? You're feeling so angry but you can't remember why.
You scrunch your forehead up, trying to remember as Michael watches you from on top of the work surface in the corner.
Oh yes, the whole using you and pretending to care about you while he was just looking for a way out and being the main cause of your spiralling depression into drug addiction and it hurts when he looks at you and you slept with this man, the convict, this BANK ROBBER what were you thinking? What were you thinking you stupid little girl?
You feel the hot anger rise up inside you and you can't breathe properly, but one single thought stops you.
Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
Michael robbed that bank for his brother. He did it to save his life. What did you do? Get high in name of love? How can you judge this man when you're worse then he'll ever be? Get a fucking grip!
And why, oh why did you conscience decide that right in front of him was the prefect time to argue with yourself over him, and then have an ephinney?
You distract yourself from thoughts running rampant in your head by nibbling on your toast, but still feel too woozy to enjoy it, or food at all right now.
You feel Michael's eyes burn into your skull throughout breakfast.
You feel well enough to shower today, Day 4 in the Lets-Get-Sara-Sober challenge. The warm water hits you dead in the chest and you stumble into the shower wall, trying to get your balance back. You're washing your hair when you notice your right leg is shaking. You rinse off and shut the shower off, trying to act like a normal person for a change, but it doesn't work out for you so well, because as you warm the biggest towel you can find around yourself, Your whole left side of your body goes numb and you faint dead away, smacking your head hard against the edge of the sink on the way down.
Your head is throbbing like you've never felt before. Any hangover you've ever had ever pales in comparison to this.
"Welcome back to land of the living."
His voice is quiet and smooth in the dark room, but the banging inside your head increases anyway. You groan slightly and try to sit up, but it's not happening.
"What happened?" You manage to croak out, throat scratch-y and sore.
"You fainted in the bathroom and hit your head on the sink, pretty hard if the lump on your head is anything to go by. You were in the bathroom for 20 minutes before any of us realised something was wrong, so Lincoln went to see what was happening. The door was locked, so I broke it open and carried you in here about, 12 hours ago."
He says it simply, like it happens to him all the time. She doesn't know what she feels about that.
"Why?" you asks softly as possible, your eyes not open yet, and still on your back.
"Why? Well, I had to, I mean, you had passed out and I couldn't open the door from the outside without a credit card but I didn't know where you kept yours, and it's not like I have one on me. I am sorry about the door, but it I had to open it ..."
Oh, god. Michael. You forgot what he's like when he's nervous around you, and it makes you smile despite the headache from hell. You don't mention you meant why you had passed out. He rambles on, but you're not listening to his words, but to his voice because it calms you down and you fall asleep again, sighing as you drift.
That night is particularly rough. You sleep about a few hours until your dreams turn into fully fledged night terrors. You claw awake, hands shaking and your left leg twitching and you realise your actually still terrified from a dream you don't remember. You pull your knees up and sob quietly into them, so you don't wake Michael who managed to somehow fall asleep on your very uncomfortable chair.
Apparently you can't even do that, and the devil and an angel wind themselves around you as you shake and sweat.
The monkey climbs higher and higher and wraps itself around you, pushing away Michael, and it whispers in your ear, all those delicious lies its been feeding you for what seems like forever, and you shake your head, trying to dislodge it, but it digs in its claws and won't let go.
You shoulders start to sting, and you hiss through your teeth. You distract yourself by following the lines of the tattoos on Michael's arms, tracing the lines until you reach his neck, you turn to look at him and he's looking at you, so you reach forward and kiss him softly. It feels so different now.
He gets up and walks away, and the monkey cows with victory and you stare at the door long after he's gone.
Michael's complete and utter rejection of you plagues you mind for what seems like hours. You check the little clock that Sucre gave you, after being fed up of being asked every time you woke up. It's half 4 in the morning. Excellent. Everyone should be asleep.
You find an old white nightdress that looks like it's made for summer, and it shows off your arms rather nicely. Track marks, cuts and bruises are in this year, right? You shove it ungracefully over your head.
You had this idea when you were sick in the bin. You have needles everywhere, but most importantly, in the bathroom bin, and you creep into the bathroom and very carefully search through the bin, hoping they haven't cleaned it out yet.
They haven't, thank god.
You find one particularly loaded needle - you must have passed out before you could get it all in your veins, so it's nearly half full.
You stare at it for a while, make up your mind and stab it straight into your thigh, pushing the plunger down and sighing when it hits your brain like an explosion of colour and sound.
You turn and lie on your back and watch everything swirl around you, content, feeling happy for the first time in 5 days (ever since Michael showed up?)
You stand up, because someone's knocking on the door.
"Hurry up! I have to pee!"
It's Sucre.
You slide past him and he stares because its obvious to everyone but you - you are bombed out of your skull and you very discretely still have the needle sticking out of your leg. When you walk it feels like its scraping bone.
You glide through your apartment, feeling like a ghost caught between worlds. You feel sad, so sad. Sorrowful, but not upset enough to cry.
You find your self in the lounge again, the TV off, room dark. You swear you can hear someone playing Pink Floyd so you twirl to the music, oblivious to everything and everyone, the dress hem resting the syringe still stuck in, and you just spin and spin.
You walk up, yet again, in your bedroom, and yes, Michael is in there with you. You're not feeling so hot. He silently hands you the bucket, and you try to throw up quietly and as sexily as possible, but it's not happening.
You feel like crap, and you thigh is aching badly; feeling like someone stabbed you there.
You pull up your dress and see that apparently you stabbed you there, and that someone thoughtfully removed the syringe for you. The hole is wide and bleeding slightly, and a large black/purple bruise has all ready formed.
You won't be running any marathons for a while.
Sucre and Lincoln enter the room, and you have a hard time looking at Lincoln, who's staring at you with a sadness you can't describe.
The three precede to talk about you like you're not there again (you wonder if they have took lessons from Dad)
"Well, any ideas?" asks Michael, sighing.
Lincoln looks over at you, face hard.
"We could hand her over to a hospital; they would know what to do better than us. They could do that one day Detox thing …"
You're not liking the turn in the conversation – hospitals are not even an option.
Michael rubs his eyes.
"It's a thought. Sucre?"
Sucre looks pleased with himself.
"I have an idea, it works really well. My uncle was addicted to the same shit she is. We really couldn't afford rehab – we weren't meant to be in the country, so we locked him in a room and only opened the door to give him food. When three days had gone by, he was sober as judge and hating us for it, but he's still clean, and pappi, that was years ago."
Michael turns to Lincoln, who shrugs.
"Best idea we've got. I say we do it."
Sucre nods his agreement.
Michael turns to look at you. You're terrified by the look in his eyes. They're actually going to lock you in a room, like a prisoner.
The irony is not lost on you.
You start babbling, stalling.
"No, Michael don't do this!" (Begging again Sara? How so very you) Please! I promise I won't do it again, I promise! Please don't do this!"
His face twists with emotions but when he looks at you all you see in stone.
"You've given me no choice Sara. I'm sorry, but I have to."
Dumbstruck, you look up at him, desperate, and say the words that seal your fate.
"Michael, please if you loved me you wouldn't"
He looks at you and you can see as plain as the tracks on your arm how much you just hurt him.
His voice is low.
"Lock her in."
Being locked in a room by the man you love gives you some perceptive. There's nothing to do but think, and wait for it to start.
The headache comes first, followed by the shaking.
You lie down and stare at the ceiling, and think about everything and nothing. What are you going to do with your life now? You're not a doctor anymore – you quit when you saw the look on Pope's face, and you don't think you're allowed to be a junkie anymore. What are you going to do?
You twist the blanket between your fingers and try not to concentrate your complete twitchy-ness.
You don't know how long you've been locked in for, but it seems like forever. It's not a nice feeling. You can't believe it's come to this.
Pathetic. That's what you are, pathetic. You're not surprised, Daddy always is right, after all.
The room is dark – you can get up and find the light, because you physically can't, so it hurts your eyes when the door opens and Michael walks in with a tray which he places on the bedside table. You don't look at it, keeping your eyes trained on him, because you have to make him let you out of the fucking room.
"Michael" you start out, softly. He sits down on the end of the bed, and waits for you to continue.
You lift your head with a confidence that you don't have and look dead into his eyes.
You're surprising clam.
"Let me out."
He looks like he's in pain, but he still stays –
"No."
Ok, now you're mad, furious anger pouring into you from nowhere.
"Michael, I don't think you understand. I have to get. Out. Of. This. Room. I have to. I can't stay in here any longer. I'll do anything. You want me to stop using, fine, I'll stop. You want me to fuck you?" You close your eyes, (here it comes!) "Christ, I'd fuck you Michael, just let me out!"
You hope he doesn't notice the complete need in your voice, because honestly? You'd fuck him even if he locked the door behind him and threw away the key.
You can't sleep. You can't sleep. You can't sleep. You can't sleep. Oh god where's the bucket?
The monkeys back. Sat at the end of the bed, watching you, head tilted. You're twitching again, its making you nervous. Fingers tapping, leg shaking, and you're blinking like a crazy person.
It's comforting to know an imaginary monkey you hallucinated can make you feel like ripping your hair out.
Not.
It opens its mouth and starts to sing.
You open your mouth and start to scream.
The walls are melting again. The ceiling drips on your nose, and your eyes start to sting.
You sleep fitfully, and when you wake up you see you're not alone. Stupid monkey. You decide you will hate primates with a passion for as long as you shall live, forever and fucking ever.
It's not fair it can talk.
"Did you know that when Chuck Norris jumps into water, he doesn't get wet? The water gets Chuck Norris-ed"
Ok, WHAT? You don't even pretend to understand that.
You know what? Fuck it, you're not even going to question it, because that monkey sings Johnny Cash for fuck's sake, and who can argue with that?
You sing David Bowie tunelessly in an attempt to drown out the ridiculous things the monkey is saying to you. ("Chuck Norris is soooo Chuck Norris, he makes onions cry!")
It really loves Chuck Norris.
Why does it sound like an overly enthusiastic teenager?
Thoughts connect now in ways they haven't done for years and everything seems to zigzag and fly together and explode and you can see it when you close your eyes.
You shiver uncontrollably for about half an hour, look at the untouched food on the bed side table and throw up all over yourself.
You cry.
You pull of your dress and throw it in the bin. You're sat on the floor, clad in another mismatched bra and panty set, playing chess with imaginary pieces with an imaginary partner who looks worryingly like a certain escaped felon in the next room.
You talk and laugh and sing to yourself, and fall asleep on the chessboard.
The jungle is humid and fucking hot, for lack of a better word. You stumble through in your underwear, brushing huge green leaves aside with your hands. You can hear birds and insects and rather horrifyingly, monkeys.
You shudder. You hate monkeys.
You walk through, the only light you can use being the stars burning up above you, and you walk until you reach a clearing.
You walk through and sit down around the edges, not too far from the fire burning in front of you.
Michael walks through and asks you why you're here.
"But I'm meant to be here." You sound so innocent you make your heartache with it.
He looks sad and shakes his head.
"No, you're really not. This isn't you, you can't stay here, counting down to the big 3-4-Oh. It's not you Sara. You're not the waiting kind, remember?"
He smiles and you manage one yourself through your tears.
His voice fades slightly as you walk away.
"You think you know, don't you? What's to come? But you have no idea."
You're eyes snap open and you see three worried faces above you. You smile, and promptly pass out.
You're eyelids flutter slightly and it takes a while to wake up this time around. You can feel everything around you in such detail you consider passing out again or possibly throwing up, but decide against it. Michael's in the room again, and he's all ready seen you throw up too many times.
You're feeling calm. Way too calm.
Michael doesn't look at you or even move his head from his hands as he says abruptly –
"So yeah, we think you're heart stopped."
You look up and see him staring at you, looking guilty as hell and heartbroken, tears in his eyes, and you just laugh and laugh and laugh, because hey, it's not the first time, is it?
God, you're side's are aching something fucking dreadful.
You take in everything around, everything looking a little brighter, a little sharper, a little bigger. You suddenly really don't envy Michael, if this is what he has to go through everyday.
The room stays dark all the time – you're sensitive to lights again. Your leg starts throbbing again and you don't want to sleep because you just had another fucked up dream – you eyes were replaced with muffins, fucking muffins for god's sake and all you could see was the bottom of the wrapper.
You repeatedly tell yourself that it would be medically impossible to replace you're own eyes in your sleep with muffins you don't even have in the apartment, but locked in this room, you find it very easy to believe.
You don't know how long it's been since they locked you in your own bedroom, but it feels like a very long time. You don't know how many days have gone past, but you know things are about to get a whole lot worse before they get a whole lot better.
You realise what's about to happen a split second before it does – the final haul. This last stage of the withdrawal, and also the hardest part.
This is going to hurt like hell.
Pain. It rips through you like heat, tearing up your body, making you cry and scream for hours at a time, sobbing in the intervals. You're sick like clockwork – practically on the hour, every fucking hour.
You hallucinate in fast-forward – brightly coloured bird's fly out of the walls and collide with purple tap dancing octopuses.
The monkey howls at you, making your head want to explode and your back ache and your stomach throb, and the skin just everywhere feel like its crawling off you, and you throw yourself to the floor and beat the carpet with your hands until it becomes sticky and red, screaming your hate and your need into the quiet cream carpet.
Your room alternately gets bigger and smaller, at one point it was so small you could touch opposing walls with your eyelashes, and noise blares out at some points and then changes suddenly to deafening silence, the only sound being your ragged breathing.
You stare at the puncture mark in your leg and without warning, it bursts and pus and blood fly in every direction, covering you and the walls and the bed and the ceiling and you stare in horror at your track marks as the blood pumps steadily out of them, in time to your terrified gasps.
Its gets so bad you shriek for someone to just fucking kill you, just end it all and make it stop, but the door never opens. You scream you peace with God into the ceiling, on your stomach with your head turned up as far as it will go, and beg Him for death.
You sigh with relief when the black descends over your eyes, until there's nothing left.