Note: There will be a two day gap between updates for the time being. Apologies in advance!
Addiction II
As the years went by, sleep was a much more difficult for John to get. No matter how exhausted he became, he found that there would be days inbetween any kind of rest he got, which still amounted to very little.
John wasn't sure when his own addiction had started. It developed over time.
He'd still been young at the very start.
It'd begun simply. Taking a bit too much paracetamol when he could have done without. Not a big deal, not at all. No real repercussions.
After a while, he found it was aiding him to sleep. It could calm him that minuscule amount and sometimes that would be enough to pull him under. He became dependent on it. But it could only do so much.
He was becoming intolerant; he was plagued by headaches more and more frequently. He thought it was worth it, though, if he could find sleep. Anything would be worth it if he could find sleep. So that was where the pills had come in.
Harry had begun leaving nighttime drowsy medication in her room. She never used it, never touched it; just let it sit there. What harm could it do? Taking it hadn't been hard – she hadn't even noticed. Although, it wasn't like she noticed much at all anymore.
He'd take it and expect to fall asleep within the hour – something he only recalled being able to do in his very early childhood. He would wake, still tired, but much less than he was used to. But he got careless. Used too much at one time – didn't pace himself, got sick.
He spent that night curled into a ball underneath his covers, shaking and shivering while his body tried to process the medication he'd taken. His hair was mussed and damp and his heart hammered. He rocked himself on his side, trying to settle his rebelling stomach. It had little effect. His stomach muscles contracted painfully every few seconds and, for a short time, John was genuinely worried.
Not because of the fact that he was sick – but if he had to get to a hospital. It wasn't an option. Not at that point. They couldn't afford the medical bill and father would be beyond furious. John wouldn't know what he would do. So he waited it out.
He had gotten better. That had been the worst of it, at that time. But almost a year later, John had taken a risk.
He hadn't been in his mothers' room since she died. No one had. But he needed to at least see what was left of her belongings after all these years. When he slept, albeit rarely, he sometimes saw her. Watched her die, a painful and slow progression.
He'd be reminded of the last beach trip they took together, just the two of them. Their last picnic in the park. And sometimes he wouldn't know he was dreaming and wake up, only to be reminded that she was gone.
That she was never coming back.
Not for father, not for Harriet, and certainly not for him.
And no, he wouldn't cry, but damn, he felt it. In his every waking moment, the hole she left tore itself larger; ripped him piece by piece.
He didn't expect, as he pushed open that door, for everything to be in exactly the same place it had been years ago.
He didn't expect to be overtaken by sentimentality.
He didn't expect that he would keep one of her knitted blankets.
He didn't expect that he'd find her medication.