I do not own Sons of Anarchy, nor do I own any recognizable characters.
Gah, this drabble… I had almost two thousand words typed out when my computer decided to freeze. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem considering Auto Save and I had become best buds, but when I had re-opened Word, my Auto Save decided not to save since it was a new document, not a pre-existing one. Enter frustration.
So this may not be exactly up to par, but if you would like to blame anything, blame Microsoft Word and the fact that Auto Save does not in fact save automatically.
"Shit. Shit, c'mon, where the fuck is it?" She mumbled around her cigarette, pulling open the drawers and jamming her hands in, searching. She knew it was here somewhere. Where the fuck did it go?
She found nothing in the bedside drawer and let out a short scream of frustration as she turned toward the bathroom desperately. She pulled everything out of the drawers tossing objects haphazardly, not caring where it landed as her breath grew ragged and her pounding head throbbed with insistence.
"Fuck," she jerked the cigarette from her mouth with shaking hands and dropped it carelessly in the sink. She opened the medicine cabinet pulling things out and pushing back all the vitamins that she could care less about. "Oh, oh thank god. Oh thank you god," she whimpered, pulling out the needle from the back of the cabinet. She tried to tear the wrapping off from around it without breaking the only fucking needle she had, but her hands shook too badly.
Her hands always shook.
"Oh, come on please." She said, wiping the sweat from her forehead in irritation. She almost wept when she finally tore it open and she slid down onto the cluttered and grimy bathroom floor. She searched the pockets of her robe, patting and tearing until she pulled the syringe bottle out, already loaded. The needle was placed in it in a moment, and she pinched her bare arms, slapping and trying to pull up a vein.
Her breathing came out ragged when she couldn't find one, and she let out a high pitched whine as she checked the crook of her arm. "Fuck, fuck, are you fucking kidding me?" she groaned. She turned her still shaking and clammy hands over, clenching her fingers into fists and let out a sigh that came out sound more like a sob when she finally found a vein.
The needle slid in cleanly as she shot up, and she ignored the first sting of pain and slumped against the bathroom cabinets.
She sat for a moment and finally registered the relief, then the automatic filthy and soiled sensation that settled over her skin directly after.
She removed the needle quickly, tossing at away with a despairing cry and rubbed the backs of her hands frantically, not sure if she was trying to clean the drug from her body or trying to keep it in.
"Oh, oh no. No, please," she gripped greasy strands of her hair in her hands and tugged hard. She pushed her legs out as she sobbed, the cold stones pushing against her bare legs not even registering. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to." She cradled her round stomach with her arms and rocked back and forth, rubbing frantically. "I didn't mean to baby, Mommy didn't mean to, I'm sorry honey."
She gradually calmed down, not knowing or caring if it was from the poison in her veins making her feel as if she had regained an inkling of her sanity or not. Her arms fell by her sides as she sat there staring at the wall, her breathing slow. She let out a pained groan as she stood slowly, pulling herself up on her numb legs and using the counter for help.
She didn't even bother looking in the mirror, already knowing what reflection would look back at her. Her face was always waxen and taut, and her eyes bloodshot and darkly rimmed. It was an image as constant as her shaking hands.
She made her way out of the bathroom slowly, kicking aside trash and random objects lying around until she made her way to her bed. She sat on the corner heavily, and ran a hand across her swollen abdomen.
Absently, she noticed the hand was pale except where the veins stood out, almost purple in their intensity.
She frowned as she rubbed her stomach. She pulled the hand back quickly as her stomach moved, a hand or foot rippling across the skin through her ratty t-shirt. She felt her face contort and her breathing speed up again. Angrily, she seized the lamp on the bedside table and threw it against the wall. The glass light broke, and shattered ruins spilled onto the carpet. She turned desperately for something else to break, to crush, to destroy.
She knocked over furniture, sobbing and letting out short screams. She tore the dirty sheets off of the bed. She pulled her own hair and threw things at her own reflection looking back at her from the full length mirror on the wall.
"This is all your fault," she screamed at her own stomach as it rippled again. She needed to break, needed to break something, needed to break something.
She threw herself down against the edge of the bed and began hitting her stomach with both hands. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," she said through her ragged breathing. "This is all your fault, all your fault, I hate you."
She let her hands fall from her stomach and continue to pull at her own hair, nails digging in the scalp until she drew blood and sobbed from the overwhelming intensity of everything that she couldn't handle and all the things she felt but didn't want to.
She keened loudly, eyes clenched shut and curled on to her side on the floor, tears falling wetly and hot on to her already scorched cheeks. She curled her knees as close to her as she could, until they came into contact with her bruised stomach and she whimpered again. She pressed her cheek into the dirty carpet, turning her face into it and letting her hair fall over her face as she cried for herself and for the unborn child she never wanted that she loved and hated at the same time.
"I'm sorry baby," she repeated over and over, rubbing her numb hands over her stomach. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Mommy didn't mean to, baby, I'm so sorry…"
When I wrote this, I imagined Wendy. But since it was never specified, let your mind go wild. Maybe it was Gemma before she had Jax; a baby that she'd had a miscarriage with after becoming fond of heroin. Could be a reason the Sons are so against the drug runs. Or maybe Tara in an alternate universe, who had run away from Charming and her family, unable to take being Queen anymore and turned to drugs to deal with her pain after learning she had become impregnated with Jax's child. Unable to handle another abortion and not able to kill the last thing of Jax she had left, she kept the baby.
Hmm… Just ignore these long author's notes. Or review and tell me how irritating my psychobabble is; either way, it's no skin off my nose.
Ah, and On the Leaves is most likely going to witness a title change in the near future. Just a heads up for those who may be reading it. Chapter three should be updated within the next day or so.