Addiction III
Those times were close to the lowest in his entire life.
It got to and past the point of sickness.
He didn't get more medication and use it right away – no, he had learned from his mistakes. He stocked up; made sure he had enough, lest suspicion arise, which it never did.
He got his prescriptions now via a university nurse who owed him a favour. He found some continued diagnosis; symptoms related to what his mother had – overall harmless – and she'd sign off on it. He got enough for a month or so, the standard amount, and kept his grades up. Sometimes he mixed medications, if he felt overwhelmed. Everyone thought it was the sickness if he looked unwell and had no reason to believe otherwise.
Poor John, with that poor sickness and his poor, late mother; didn't you know? Heard his father was an alcoholic.
Neither his father nor his sister were home. He was older now – secondary school age. He felt much older. He was tired. He was so, so tired. Of all of it. He could not find the strength to move; not quite on the edge of delirium, but close enough now.
He was fully clothed – stained trousers and a jumper torn in spots. They clung to his frozen skin. He lay in the bathtub, head against the tiles and feet dangling over the edge. Water was halfway up his chest. His gaze was unfocused, or rather, focused solely on the ceiling.
His pupils were dilated. There was dried blood beneath his fingernails that was slowly washing away and scratches, raw and red on the insides of his arms. It wasn't like he could feel the pain. There were specks of blood where skin had been torn – no matter how much scratching he did, it still felt like there were things crawling on him.
His veins stuck out vividly against his skin, his pulse throbbing weakly. Some of his hair had begun to fall out – not in chunks, but large strands; enough that he would notice. He knew he was unwell. He knew that something needed to be done. He just didn't know what.
John listened to his own heartbeat. It was unsteady. Beating unhealthily fast in one moment and slowing to a crawl in the next. Perhaps it was just the progression of time. John did not know, nor did he care to.
He felt numb. Both literally, with his skin and bones and trembling limbs, and inside. He almost wanted to scoff, but he didn't have the energy for it. Is this what he had been reduced to?
Of course it was.
He contemplated it for almost a second. It was just a fleeting thought, not something he dwelled on or something that recurred. He could just maneuver that small amount and down, down, down, under the shallow water he'd go.
It'd be difficult, at first. He could hold his breath until his lungs felt like they would burst, open his eyes against the water and let the burn consume his body. Watch as air bubbles drifted to the surface and see how quickly spots invaded his vision.
Maybe he'd change his mind. Struggle against it. But he would fatigue and give in anyway. From there it would be easy – just drift away.
But the weight of his mothers' pendant was almost beating against his skin in time with his heart.
He couldn't do it.