Tim woke up in a raggedy bed, his head was pounding. He sighed, as he tried to lean up, and get up from the bed. His muscles and head protested very loudly. He let out a gentle grunt in response. His throat felt itchy, and he tried to suppress a cough. Where was he? Why couldn't he remember anything? He raised his hands up to his face, running his fingers through his black hair. He suddenly broke out into a coughing fit, his wheezy breath making him lose his sight for a second. He clumsily got up, stumbling to his feet in spite of his muscles screeching in defiance to his actions. He reached for his bedside table, finding an orange bottle. He looked at the label.
CLOZAPINE TABLETS
TIMOTHY WRIGHT
TAKE ONE OR TWO TABLETS
BY MOUTH EVERY DAY
Tim had seen this exact writing on the pill bottles ever since he had been a child, he could still picture and smell the doctors office, his mother complaining about having to take him to the doctors office so much, pay for medication, he knew she would have liked to spend the money for his medication on more scratch tickets from the gas station. He hacked, being suddenly brought back to the present. He looked at the pill bottle, he rattled it, and to his disappointment, no rattling came from the bottle. He sighed, the sigh turned into a coughing fit, he had sworn that that bottle had been full just yesterday. He stumbled up, and made his way to the bathroom. He hacked into the sink, crimson colored liquid coming out of his mouth. The tangy taste of blood lingered in his mouth, his hand trembled as he reached for the medicine cabinet, orange pill bottles tumbled out. He felt a bit of shame, the clutter of his pills just made him anxious.
He reached into the cabinet, and grabbed another pill bottle, quickly popping the cap off. He took about five pill capsules into his hand, hesitated and put two more and threw them into his mouth. Swallowing the pills, he coughed and dropped to the ground against his sink cabinets. He banged his head up against the cabinet, letting out a sigh of relief. "Crap.. I forgot I was supposed to meet Jay earlier. The slightly older gentlemen had contacted him not too long ago, at least he presumed, he had no idea how long this black out had lasted. He looked down at himself, he had blood all over his clothes. His eyes widened, it didn't feel like he was bleeding. After checking over himself, he found that he was in fact not bleeding. Although, he didn't know if that was worse. Where in the hell did this blood come from? His throat had cleared up, he sat up, looking around, he saw outside it was the middle of the night. He quickly made a dash for his cellphone, he looked through it. Several missed calls from Jay, and one or two voicemails. He sighed and pressed the button, listening to the voicemail.
'Tim! Hey! Uhh, I've been waiting here for a while and I.. I wanted to talk to
You.. obviously about Marble Hornets, and… other things. Anyways, call me back when you can,... if you can..'
Tim raised an eyebrow, "Why wouldn't I be able to call you back?" He mumbled out loud to himself. He froze momentarily, did Jay somehow know about his black outs? He thought about it for a moment.. No.. he hadn't known Jay long, or, at least to the extent of his memory. He thought that Jay was a bit odd, always having a camera in his hand, always recording, and paranoid when he didn't have a camera in his hands or on his chest. He sighed, and started to put on his shoes, while tying his shoelaces together, he pressed play on the next voicemail, having it play in the background as he worked on his shoes in frustration.
'Uh, Tim! I.. I noticed that you weren't answering my calls, maybe your phones shut off? I don't know, but… I found some strange things… I want to meet up and discuss some of them if you'd like? No rush.. Anyways, call me back when you can.'
Tim gave the phone a weird look, the audio was cutting out, and Jay's voice seemed hushed and hurried. A strange sensation of rage filled over him, he hadn't had a black out in months! Why was he just now getting them? These massive headaches, and this feeling that someone was watching him. He huffed, tying his shoe successfully, and sat up. He reached for his jacket, and slid it over his shoulders. He reached into his pocket, finding his lighter and a box of cigarettes.
He sighed, walking outside of his room and out onto his porch. He leaned against his wall, and took a cigarette into his mouth. Covering the cigarette and lighter, he attempted several times to get the flame alight. Finally, it crackled into a flame, he put it up to the cigarette, and once it was lit, he inhaled the smoke. He admits to himself, and never anyone else, that he never really liked to smoke. His mother had an addiction to them as well. She would tell him to bike over to the gas station, to grab her normal buy. A twelve pack of beer, two packs of cigarettes, and a scratch ticket. His mother was always a fan of scratch tickets, he had no idea why. As a kid, he always thought it was so that she would be able to finally provide the life she wanted for the both of them. Now that he was older, he realized that it was probably to bring a false sense of hope to her life. If she had won, he knew she would have put him in an orphanage while she still could, and go run off with some young dark and brooding man.
He sighed, and flicked the ashes off of the bud of the cigarette. Sighing, he put it out. He fixed his jacket a little bit, and went inside. He went to his room, and looked at his window. It was open, the curtains wide open. How odd, he didnt remember it being open when he woke up, or opening it at all for that matter. He shrugged, and closed it. He then would lay down, falling asleep in his still dirty, and very bloody clothes. That was tomorrow Tim's problem.
