WARNINGS: This is about death and drug and alcohol abuse. There is also a fairly detailed description of vomiting (paragraphs 4-6, if you want to skip). If you're uncomfortable with any of this, please do not read!
"I'll take one 'cause I needed to feel it so much. I needed that thing we call fun, but now I'm ignored and I'll take some more, until something is happening."
Hurt "Overdose"
Billy staggered out of the elevator into a room at the very top of his mansion. He'd really overdone it this time. He'd thrown a party to celebrate the release of a new single and had had far too much to drink. He hadn't meant to get particularly drunk, but his CD sales had been declining for the past year and one thing had led to another.
He'd spent most of the night doing things he'd regret later and taking a shot every time his sinking popularity creeped into his thoughts. Eventually the drinks' depressant effects took over and Billy's anxieties returned in full force. However this was a Hollywood party; there was no end of herbs, pills and powders that would cure any ill. He got some coke from a friend he'd known since the beginning of his career. Later he took a pill from a friend he… didn't really know at all, if he'd stopped to think about it. He washed it down with another drink, but it did nothing for the pounding headache that had been building for the past two hours.
A few minutes later and the headache had double in size. He didn't like to abandon his own party, but there was no way he could stay on his feet much longer. Clutching his head, he pushed his way through the crowd and into his elevator. He relaxed slightly as the elevator ascended and the noise from downstairs faded to a throb. The elevator stopped and left him where he was now, a room at the highest point of the mansion. He looked around, confused. This was one of his favourite rooms in the house, but he'd intended to go to his bedroom. He decided it didn't really matter since there was a couch in here and that was good enough. He stumbled his way to the sofa and crumpled down onto it. No sooner had he lay down than a wave of nausea passed over him.
He sat back up too fast and fumbled dizzily in the direction of the washroom. He didn't get very far before a shudder ran up his spine. He pitched forward as he felt bile and stagnant alcohol bite at his throat. He fell to his hands and knees as he vomited on the carpet. He managed to gasp for breath once before another pang of nausea hit him in full force. He vomited again, now reduced to propping himself up on his elbows as choleric fluid tore through him and spilled onto the floor. Once it stopped, Billy gasped desperately for breath. His eyes stung from the fumes of alcohol and tears ran down his face. His entire body was shaking with sobs as he collapsed onto his side.
He looked around the room in a panic. He'd drunk to the point of throwing up before, but it had never been this bad. He was so cold and he realized now he couldn't feel his hands or feet. He couldn't even call for help. He didn't have the strength and even breathing was painful at this point.
Oh please no, he thought as sickness washed over him again. He had no strength to sit back up again and had to throw up lying on his side. He curled in on himself as his stomach emptied and he began to dry heave. His chest was burning now and he began to alternate between gagging and coughing. Just when he was sure his chest was about to burst, the emesis began to subside until he lay perfectly still. He vaguely realized that he wasn't even breathing anymore. Then everything went dark.
Billy knew what was happening. The heat in his chest, the soreness in his legs, all of the pain was gone. It was dark, but he was sure he hadn't closed his eyes. A strange feeling was soaking into him; he was starting to feel… insubstantial. Somehow, he already knew this was what dying felt like.
If he'd been able to move he would have begun to tremble. He could really feel his life slipping away, but he desperately didn't want to let it go. He'd never given much thought to what happens after you die, but he suddenly felt very sure that there was no heaven nor any kind of afterlife. He somehow felt as if he knew he was about to just stop existing, to just end. The concept made his thoughts swim frantically with fear.
He suddenly began to think of all the things he had done in his life and all the things he'd meant to do. He began to remember his first concert and all of his concerts since, more vividly than they had been in person. A new, more intense breed of terror began claw through him as he realized he would never experience the rush of a screaming mob of fans ever again. He couldn't take that; the fawning admiration made him feel more alive and euphoric than he would have otherwise imagined possible. He couldn't give up fame, not even in the face of death.
No, I can't die, he thought vehemently, please, please no.
Just as his panic came to a head, his eyes shot open. For a long time he was absolutely still, too stunned to move. Eventually he looked around the room; he was standing in his loft. A grin spread across his face as a realization spread through his mind.
"I'm not dead!" He screeched with joy as he spun around, "Oh thank god!"
His happy shrieks continued and he began trilling about miracles and bucket lists, until he looked down and saw his own body curled up on the floor beneath him.
