(9 days later)
Drake stumbled down the sidewalk. He felt weak and exhausted, and he wasn't sure that he could make it another step. Although the sun was in the sky and it wasn't nearly as cold as it had been the night before, he was still shivering, and his teeth were chattering. He constantly went from hugging himself to exhaling warm air into his palms and rubbing them together as an attempt to warm himself. His eyes were heavy, and the bright sun caused his head to pound with every step he took. He could use a shave, a shower, and a burger. He hadn't had a bite to eat since he'd stayed with Kenzly, and that felt like forever ago. He constantly had hunger pangs. They'd started about a week ago, and gradually, they'd become more frequent and severe. Just as his stomach cramped up, Drake stopped walking. The pain was so sharp that he could barely move. He hunched over and held himself up by placing a hand on the wall.
Ashamed of his current affliction, Drake forcefully staggered down a nearby alleyway to hide from the judgmental eyes of passersby. He shielded himself behind a dumpster, then leaned against a brick wall and slid down until he was on his bottom, clutching his stomach the entire time. His eyelids were squeezed together tightly. "Mmm..." He tried to take steady inhales, but every now and then, his breaths would get caught in his throat. He tightly gripped the metal dumpster because it helped to have something to hold on to. His knuckles turned white. "Oh, boy. Oh, shit. Oh, god damn." Just hold on. It won't be too much longer. It'll be over soon. "Aaah-haaa..." He bit his lip. "Oh, fuck. Fucking shit." He clenched his teeth together and blew out his breath as his eyes watered over. Just a couple more minutes. Just hang in there.
When the worst of it was over, the young man pushed himself to his feet. There was no time to waste. He had to get to the diner, and this time, he had to spend the tip money that he was going to steal on food instead of on Charlie. He couldn't keep going through this every five fucking minutes.
When he made his way to the diner, Drake stepped through the door and moved over to the familiar corner booth. He thought he had slipped in undetected, but the second he sat down, he was approached by an irritated manager.
"Nuh-uh. No way. Out."
Drake looked up at him with confusion, his stomach still obviously giving him trouble. "What?"
"You've been coming in here for over a week, and you sit here for hours and never buy anything. Half the time, you just sleep."
Drake could feel many eyes on him. Several customers and waitresses glanced his way with sympathetic expressions and looks of discomfort. Why were they uncomfortable? Drake was the one getting his pathetic existence put on blast in front of everyone.
"This isn't a homeless shelter. Either buy something or get out."
"I don't have any money," Drake admitted quietly, his voice filled with shame.
"Then I suggest you leave."
Drake's face was bright red, and he just wanted to die. He felt his eyes welling up with tears as the situation began to overwhelm him, and the fact that he was close to crying in public embarrassed him even more. He started to slide out of the booth, but stopped when he heard a voice.
"Get him a chicken finger basket. I'm buying."
The disgruntled manager turned with a frown to see who was willing to allow such a filthy junkie to dine in his eating establishment, but now that someone was offering money, he couldn't turn him down. "Very well," he said.
Drake couldn't see who it was until the manager stalked off because the kind stranger had been standing behind him, but once he saw his face, his heart dropped.
Coach Tad gave a smile to the boy. "Is this seat taken?" Without waiting for a reply, he set his drink down onto the table and slid into the booth across from Drake, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I must say that I'm surprised to see you here. God it's been...how long? I can't even express to you how much I've missed your little office visits."
Drake's lips tightened, and his nose twitched with disgust. He hated this guy, and seeing him again filled him with an anger that he hadn't felt in a long time. He started to slide out of the booth, but his hand was grabbed.
"Come on, Drake. Don't be like that. Let me buy you a meal. Sit down."
The young man didn't want to, but he was starving. If he didn't get something inside of his stomach soon, he was pretty sure that he was going to die. Against his better judgement, he followed orders, but he made sure that his facial features expressed how unhappy he was about it. He yanked his hand out of the man's grip when the coach started grazing his thumb gently across the top of his skin.
"How have you been?" the man asked.
"Clearly, I'm not at my best," he said rudely. He hated that he was asking him something that was obvious by his appearance alone. Drake hung his head to avoid those lust-filled eyes and that alligator grin.
"I see," the man said with a frown. "You dropped out of high school?"
What did he want him to say? Yes, I dropped out of high school and became a full-time drug addict instead? Was he wanting him to feel regretful? He didn't. School would only add to his stress right now.
"Did your parents find out about the drugs? Did they both kick you out?" Although he said these in question form, they were more statements than inquiries, and this annoyed the hell out of Drake.
Smug fucking bastard. "You don't know shit," he spat.
"Where have you been staying then?"
Drake had no answer, but his silence was enough of an answer for Tad.
"How long have you been living on the streets?"
"This is none of your god damn business."
"Alright, chicken finger basket," a waitress said. She couldn't meet Drake's eyes as she set a plate down in front of him.
"No need to be so damn hostile," Tad said to the boy. "I'm just trying to help."
"And a bacon burger. Extra tomatoes, extra onions."
"Thank you," the coach said, giving her a polite smile. "Do you mind bringing over a Coke for the kid?"
"Sure thing," she said.
When she was gone, the man said, "Look, Drake. You don't have to be embarrassed about all this."
He hated that Tad had been his rescue. He would've preferred anyone else, even his own mother. Well, maybe not. He didn't want her to see the person he'd become. He just wished that he was strong enough to turn down the meal. As he picked up one of the chicken fingers, he could feel the man smiling down at him even though he kept his eyes low with disgrace.
"When's the last time you ate?" the man asked, but Drake ignored his question as a soda was placed in front of him.
He took another bite of the chicken, closing his eyes with satisfaction. God, he was SO FUCKING HUNGRY! The fingers were hot, and they burned his skin and scalded the inside of his mouth, but he couldn't get himself to slow down.
"Where have you been staying?"
Drake shoved three French fries into his mouth at once and had to consciously focus on not moaning with pleasure. He couldn't remember ever tasting anything this good. He wondered why he'd never eaten here before when he'd had money or parents to pay for him. He'd never had chicken fingers as delicious as these.
Tad observed the boy. He resembled a skeleton and his frail fingers never once stopped shaking. "Are you feeling alright? You're looking kinda pale."
Drake had shoved so much into his mouth at once that he was close to choking, so he chased the food down with his Coca-Cola, then immediately went right back to scarfing down the grub. That is, until Tad snatched his plate away and set it next to himself in the booth. For a split second, Drake's expression was that of a child who had woken up to find no presents under the tree on Christmas morning - but only for a second - then it changed to anger.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," the man demanded.
Hesitantly, Drake met his eyes, and a shiver went up his back just looking at him. Despite all of the drugs, he remembered clearly the way they had looked as he was pinned against a wall. He remembered the excitement in them when the man's hands had slipped inside of his jeans. He could recall the satisfied expression when he'd felt him. He was sick.
"I've been nothing but nice to you. I'm trying to help you out of the kindness of my heart. I could've taken you to the bathroom and made you give me a handjob for this meal, but I genuinely care about you, and clearly, you need some fucking help. The least you could do in return is to treat me with some fucking respect. Do you understand me?"
Drake's nostrils flared with disgust. He wants to talk about fucking respect?! What a hypocrite!
Tad turned and met eyes with one of the waitresses. He flagged her over and whispered, "He's done," exaggerating his mouth movements so the lady could read his lips. She nodded and started to make her way over from behind the counter.
"Don't," Drake said, his hunger getting the best of him. "I'm sorry, okay? Jesus."
Unfortunately, he handed over the half-eaten plate and thanked her. When she was gone, he said, "Maybe if you show me some fucking manners, I'll buy you a slice of pie."
Drake didn't want dessert. He wanted actual food. He wanted those chicken fingers. But he supposed it was better than nothing. Tad could tell by his expression that he was willing to play along.
"Tell me about what happened to you after you dropped out of school."
He decided to skip the whole Meelah thing. "I moved in with my dad."
"I bet he wasn't happy with your decision when you were so close to the end of high school."
"No, sir." His eyes followed the burger as the coach lifted it and took a bite.
The man spoke with his mouth full. "And then what happened? Why aren't you staying with him now?"
"We got into a fight." Drake's stomached growled, filling him with embarrassment. He clutched it as if that would silence it. Just then, he felt a sharp, gnawing pain in the pit of his belly. Jesus, not here. Not now.
"What was it about?"
"Gmm... We just hate each other." Drake tightly grabbed the edge of the table, then curled his toes as far as they would go. "Mmm..." He exhaled through his teeth.
Tad saw a single teardrop slip down the young man's cheek, but Drake was quick to wipe it away. "Tell me what happened," he persisted.
"Why do you give a shit?"
"Is that what you consider manners?" he reminded.
"He fucking tried to drown me, okay? Fuck." He leaned against the window and pulled his knees up to his chest. He then hid his face inside because he felt paranoid that everyone in the restaurant was watching him.
"What is happening?"
"My fucking stomach." His voice was strained. "Jesus Christ." He grabbed his hair in a fist with one hand. Feeling pain in another part of his body strangely helped to relieve some of the pressure in his abdomen. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered.
"Do I need to call an ambulance?" He was confused as to what exactly was going on.
"Mm-mm." He shook his head.
"What?"
"Fuck." Drake lifted his head and spoke with irritation. "No." His stomach growled again.
It was then that Tad pieced together that the young man was having severe hunger pangs. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Mmm..." It was too much math for his brain to comprehend at the moment, but he answered because he wanted that pie. "Almost two weeks ago."
"Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
"Can you help me out?" Drake asked, his voice showing his desperation.
The gym coach thought it over for a moment, wondering how he could take advantage of the situation and get the most out of Drake's misfortune. "Alright, new deal. I changed my mind. I actually will take that handjob."
"Fuck off," Drake said, hiding his head between his knees again.
"I'll buy you another meal - not just the pie. I'll get you another chicken finger basket. And I'll give you ten bucks that you can spend wherever you want."
Drake was disgusted with himself that he was actually considering it. But he'd already blown the guy. And vice versa. Is it really such a big deal anymore? Clearly, his body wasn't his own. Not according to his father, who sexually assaulted him just about every day, and certainly not according to the man sitting across from him. He'd been touched and penetrated so many times without giving his consent that it was almost normal to him now.
"Twenty bucks," Drake said.
Tad wouldn't budge. "Ten."
"Fifteen."
"Ten."
Drake sighed. "Shit. Fine." He stood with the intent on leading the man into the bathroom.
Drake didn't feel too great about what he had done earlier. However, the hunger pangs along with the promise of finally being reconnected with Charlie had pulled him through it. It wasn't so bad. At least he didn't have to suck him off. It was like being back in gym class, except he just went a little bit further than the norm this time.
The pains in the pit of his stomach hadn't completely subsided; they just happened less frequently and didn't stay nearly as long as they had before. After Drake had scarfed down his meal and dessert, he'd almost immediately puked everything up in the bathroom because it had been so long since he'd eaten. Coach Tad had proceeded to write his number down on a napkin for Drake, and he'd encouraged the young man to call if he ever needed anything while giving him a mischievous wink before he departed.
Drake had left right after. He could feel pressure from the manager, who had been staring at him from behind the counter. He didn't mind. He'd needed to make a Charlie run anyway.
So now here he was in his usual spot doing his usual thing of getting high on Charlie. Even the cough medicine didn't warm him up. No wonder so many homeless people were alcoholics. It's fucking freezing! What else did they have to keep themselves warm?
Unfortunately, his Triple C's didn't hit hard, so he couldn't get away by hallucinating Meelah's presence. He couldn't even take out his phone and look at pictures of her or send her text messages like usual because his phone had been dead for over a week now. He was completely cut off from the world. On his daily walks around the city, he would pass through Kenzly's neighborhood to check if she'd returned home, but still she was staying with Mindy at his mother's house. Maybe he could go back there, too.
He immediately shook that thought from his head. No fucking way could he return home. Not while he looked like this. He was a fucking skeleton, and he hadn't had a shower in forever. He still wore the Green Day shirt and thin red and black plaid button-up collared shirt that Rhinestone had let him borrow. Both were raggedy and wrinkly and covered in dirt and grass stains. His jeans had small holes in them, revealing his filthy skin in places. The bottom of his bare feet were calloused and black, and there were cuts all over them that constantly gave him trouble.
"Aaachoo!" Drake sniffled, then coughed. He covered his mouth with his hand as he turned on his side and pulled his knees up to his chest in order to make himself as small as possible in hopes that the wind would miss him. When he stopped coughing, he sniffled again, and the crimson color on his skin gained his attention. Jesus, he'd coughed up blood. "Shit."
What was happening? Was this okay? Was it because of the Triple C's? Surely, it wasn't. Maybe there had been glass or something in the food he had eaten somehow. Or maybe it was just because he was always coughing. Ever since the first night he'd slept in the park, he'd been sick. As it got closer and closer to Christmas, the temperature only grew colder. He swore that the temperature dropped by at least five degrees every night. He had originally thought that he'd get used to it, but it only seemed to get worse.
More blood splattered from his lips again as he erupted into a coughing fit. He clutched his aching stomach and winced at the pain in his chest.
Drake had felt too weak to go on his daily walk to the diner and steal tip money to buy Charlie with. Instead, he'd laid in his usual spot all day, dozing in and out of uncomfortable sleep. Everything ached. He was tired of sleeping on this hard ground. He was tired of being cold. He was tired of being thirsty. He was tired of being hungry. He was tired of being tired. He felt miserable, and he was grateful when he was able to slip into a restless slumber and escape his troubles for a while. Unfortunately, a drop of water fell onto his cheek, then another, then another. Drake squeezed his eyes closed tighter as he awoke when another raindrop landed on his eyelashes. He wiped it away and could feel as the drops became more frequent.
"Fucking hell," he groaned, looking around himself. What time is it? By the look of the night sky above him, he would've guessed that it was maybe ten o'clock at night.
He shivered as the rain fell more rapidly. It was as if, all of a sudden, the bottom had fallen out. His ears were filled with the loud sound of trillions of droplets colliding with the ground around him. He pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning again, his sore body screaming. He clutched his chest, which gave him a sharp pain with his movement and made it hard for him to breathe. He clenched his teeth together and forced himself onto his feet, staggering a good bit. His knees buckled under him. Why is it so hard to walk? Drake took a step forwards, then another, before his legs gave out. He dropped onto his knees, then immediately leaned forwards and wretched at the feeling of nausea sliding up his throat. However, nothing left his lips, for there was nothing inside of his stomach. Drake coughed, then spat out the bloodied saliva that he did manage to summon up.
The young man put the back of his hand over his mouth, then hefted himself onto his feet. For a moment, he just stood there, absolutely at a loss about what to do. He had to find somewhere to go. He had to get a roof over his head. Maybe it was time to break down and beg Ricardo for forgiveness and kiss his ass and tell him he had been right all along.
Mmm...maybe not. As Drake stumbled across the grass, he found the playground. He climbed up the few tiny steps with a great deal of exhaustion and walked across a wobbly rope bridge. His hands shook wildly as he tightly gripped the rope to hold his unsteady self up. He climbed up a nearby ladder, so tired that he let go of a sob. Drake pulled himself through a small, child-sized hole with ease, and once he was on the second level of the playground, he crawled over to the tunnel and curled up inside of it, finally protected from the storm.
Drake's entire body trembled as if he was a heroin addict going through withdrawals. He even had snot dripping from his nose, which was sore from all the times he'd wiped it away before giving up on it. He squeezed his torso tightly as an attempt at giving himself some sort of warmth. His clothes and hair were soaked and dripping, for the freezing gusts of wind rendered his shelter useless. The ice cold drops of water felt like pins and needles stabbing through his skin. There were tiny puddles of blood and saliva nearby from the times that Drake would cough or dry-heave. He hadn't slept a wink. Instead, he spent the entire night crying and praying for the sun. It never came.
(2 days later)
The rain had ceased off and on for a while, giving Drake time to relieve his bladder in the bushes. It had been muddy outside, but Drake had preferred the hard ground. It was much better than the cramped, curved, plastic tunnel. Unfortunately, the storm had started back up about three hours ago, and it was still going strong, so Drake was back inside of the tunnel. He hadn't slept in probably three days. Or more. He wasn't sure. He'd lost count. He hadn't eaten in that long as well, so his hunger pangs were back, and they were kicking his ass. The only water he got was when he lifted his chin and caught the raindrops in his mouth.
He couldn't take this anymore. He just couldn't. It was fucking sleeting outside, and when Drake pulled himself out of the tunnel, his shaking grew even worse and more violent than ever before. The walk to his father's house was hell. He was so weak and sore and exhausted that he could hardly make it, but the thought of a warm bed and a nice meal and a hot shower pulled him through. He'd have to endure a beating first, of course, and that was only if Martin took him back. Drake knew he had dug himself into quite a deep hole when he'd challenged the man before storming out all high and mighty as if he was the shit. All he could do would be to beg for his father's forgiveness, and at this point in his life, that was no longer beneath him. How could he possibly get anymore lower than he already was?
Martin opened his eyes as the sound of knocking woke him. He'd been hearing it in his sleep for the past five minutes now, but it hadn't registered that it wasn't just in his dreams until now. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand and found that it was a little before four a.m. Who the hell would possibly be at his door at this time of night? He started to grab some pants and a shirt, but the knocks became louder and more urgent. Martin exited his room, made his way down the hallway, and passed by the living room. He pulled open the door and was shocked at the sight before him.
His only son stood just a couple feet from him. The boy was a lot skinnier than he had been before he left - sickeningly so - and his eyes and cheeks were sunken into his face. He was covered in dirt and mud and snot. He had dark circles all around his bloodshot eyes and unattractive bags under each one. His hair was greasy, his clothes were filthy, and he was barefoot. Just watching him shake was disconcerting and off-putting, and the sound of his teeth rapidly chattering together filled the man's ears.
Drake was sobbing when he spoke, and his voice cracked. "Dad?"
Martin couldn't remember ever seeing his son so vulnerable. Sure, he'd broken the boy before, but this felt different. Something had changed about Drake.
"Please, let me come home," he begged, pleading with his tear-filled eyes.
Martin opened the door wider, allowing the young man to step inside. Drake was immediately hit with warmth, and the sudden change in temperature made him shiver. He wrapped his wiry arms around himself.
"Wait right here," the man commanded, and his son obeyed. He soon returned with a towel and handed it to the boy.
"Thanks." Drake dried himself off as best as he could. He pathetically mumbled sincere apologies about his actions before he'd left, and he admitted that Martin was right about him overreacting.
"Have you been living on the streets this whole time?"
Drake's voice squeaked when he said, "Yeah," and just being reminded of the last two horrible weeks caused fresh tears to stream down his cheeks.
"Jesus!" His father seemed genuinely concerned. "It's fucking freezing out there!"
Drake went back to apologizing as Mr. Parker led him over to the dining room table and motioned for him to sit down. He was visibly relieved to be able to rest his poor legs.
"Aachooo! Aaachooo! Aachooo! Aaachooo!" Drake sniffled, then groaned, which irritated his throat and provoked a couple coughs from him. His chest ached, and his shoulder blades screamed in pain at his jerky movements.
When he pulled his hands away from his lips, Martin caught a glimpse of red blood on his palm. "Jesus!" The man grabbed his wrist before he could hide it and looked to see how much was there. "How long have you been coughing up blood?"
"A few days."
"A few days?!" Martin pushed Drake's oily bangs back and felt his forehead. "Fucking hell, you're burning up."
"I just wanna go to sleep." Although he said it as a statement, he was asking for permission.
"I don't think so, Drake. You need to go to the fucking hospital."
"But I'm so tired."
"If you close your eyes, I'm not sure you're gonna wake up. You look like hell."
"It'll be okay," Drake whispered.
Martin shook his head. "Nah, we're gonna have you checked out. Go on in the bathroom and take a quick shower. I'll grab a change of clothes out of the basement."
Drake wanted to protest, but he didn't dare. Not when he'd just been allowed back.
Martin watched as Drake bent over to pick up his shirt, stretching the skin on his sides over his ribs like some sort of elastic suit. After the boy slipped the long-sleeved shirt over his head, he ran a brush through his hair.
"I found an old pair of sneakers in my closet." The man held them out.
Drake thanked him, then sat on the toilet and pulled on a pair of socks. Next, he slipped the shoes onto his feet. His toes already felt ten times warmer.
Martin picked up Drake's old, wet clothes and went down to the basement where the washer and dryer machines were. Drake followed like a lost puppy to avoid being alone. Before the man tossed them in to wash, he checked the pockets just to be sure there wasn't anything inside that could mess up the machines. Only coming up with a small napkin, he tossed the clothes inside and turned the washing machine on. He was going to trash the napkin until he saw that it had writing on it.
"Who's number is this?"
Drake didn't want to risk lying and getting caught and losing the kindness that his father was giving to him. "My old gym coach. I ran into him at a diner. He said to call if I needed anything."
"You mean the one that molested you?"
Drake cringed at the word. That was basically what had happened, but he never ever used that word when thinking about it. He felt so pathetic when he realized that that was the proper term for it. Drake Parker has been molested.
"He helped me out," Drake said so that maybe his father wouldn't be so angry.
"And what did you do for him?"
Drake lowered his eyes with shame. There was no use denying it, but he couldn't get himself to admit it out loud.
"I can't believe you were out there whoring yourself out. To him, of all people! What are you, a fucking prostitute?"
Drake shrugged and spoke in a whisper, but he still had his eyes low. "I was just hungry."
Martin sighed. He knew that Drake had thought that it had been his only option, but why the hell had he waited so long before coming back home? Why would he let things get this bad? If Martin would've known that he wouldn't wind up on some friend's couch, the man wouldn't have told him to leave.
"I swear, if I ever see that fucking coach, I'm gonna kill him."
Even though it was hypocritical for him to say, Drake appreciated that he cared.
Martin's face was pouring with sweat, but he kept the heater on as high as it could go because Drake seemed to be enjoying it. The boy was still trembling quite a bit; it was going to take a while to defrost fully. Currently, Drake was leaned over in his seat with his face hidden between his knees and his arms hugging his own torso. Martin had thought this this was some sort of maneuver to warm himself, but he changed his mind when he heard a muffled squeak leave his son's lips.
"Are you okay?"
Drake nodded, never lifting his head. "Mm-hm."
However, the way his toes were clenched and his fingers were gripping and wrinkling the side of his sweater tight enough to cause his knuckles to turn white told him otherwise. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and rubbed for a short moment, then he pulled him into a sitting position so that he could see his face, which was contorted as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"What's wrong?" the man asked.
"My stomach hurts really bad. Mmm," he groaned as a sharp pain hit him.
"Did you eat when you were gone?"
"Not really."
And now Martin understood why the boy had been willing to give his old gym coach sexual satisfaction.
"I'll stop by a McDonald's."
Although he was having hunger pangs again, Drake didn't feel hungry at all, and he didn't think he could get himself to eat. However, he would if it meant that all of this would stop.
Drake puckered his lips and clenched his teeth together, then blew air out and sucked it back in. He shifted in his seat. He rocked back and forth. However, nothing was easing the pain. The young man couldn't hold back his sob.
By the time they reached the fast-food restaurant, the worst of his stomach ache was gone, but he knew it would be back soon. It always came back.
"What do you want?" the man asked.
"Anything's okay," the boy answered.
Martin ordered him a Big Mac meal, and Drake scarfed it down so fast that his dad had to pull over so that he could vomit. When the boy was done, he weakly pulled himself inside of the pick-up truck and wiped his mouth off.
"Here's a napkin." Martin pulled one out of the paper sack and passed it to the boy. He put the vehicle in drive and gently pressed on the gas after checking his mirrors to see if it was okay to get back on the main road. "Where have you been staying?"
"I stayed with Rhinestone and Kenzly one night. And then I slept in the park the rest."
"Jesus, you were right outside the neighborhood this whole time? You could've come home sooner."
"I was scared," Drake admitted. "I thought you would kill me if I showed my face there again."
Martin couldn't blame him. After Drake had completely disrespected him by spitting on him, he swore he would kill him. Luckily, although shaking with rage, he'd managed to kick the boy out instead, but he often wondered where the two would be now had his son not left that day. For sure, he would've murdered him. His fury had been uncontrollable when that had happened. He hadn't told Drake yet, but he'd trashed all of his belongings. That's why the young man was wearing one of Martin's outfits, and it was super baggy on him.
"You never have to stay gone that long. Just give me a day or two to calm down."
"Well, shit. I wish I would've known that sooner." Drake coughed, and more blood landed on his wrist when he covered his mouth.
Martin glanced at him. "Have you used anything this week?"
"Just Triple C's."
"Are you lying to me?"
"No, I swear. And I haven't even used that in a couple days," said Drake. "Since it started storming."
"Have you been able to get cigarettes? I've heard that menthols contain little pieces of fiberglass in them that can make you start coughing up blood over some period of time."
"No, I haven't had any money." A cigarette sounded so nice right now, though.
"Have you been paying for those pills then?"
"Yeah."
"So you had money for drugs, but not for food."
"Priorities," Drake said sarcastically. But on a more serious note, he spoke with a meek voice, scared of his father's reaction. "You're the same way."
Martin said no more on the subject. In fact, he didn't say anything for the remainder of the drive. After they found a parking spot outside of the ER, Martin turned off his truck and made his way towards the entrance of the building. It was a semi-long walk, and when he looked over his shoulder, he found that his son was trailing behind quite a bit. He stopped and waited for him to catch up, then slowed his pace to match Drake's.
"I feel so weak," the boy explained.
"Maybe it's nothing serious," Martin assured. "They probably have something to make you feel better."
"Are you gonna..." the young man started. "Are you gonna tell Mom?"
"I think we both know it's best not to add to her stress right now." To lighten the mood, he morbidly joked, "But I might have to say something if you die."
Drake couldn't help but crack a grin, but it was gone in a flash. He hated that, instead of enjoying the moment, he pondered how long this Martin would be here before the asshole Martin inevitably returned.
