8. Hurts like Hell

Tyler opened his eyes to the faint rays of the New England sun penetrating the grimy window of the back room.

He felt groggy, and tired, and wished he hadn't woken up at all. Blood thumped away painfully inside his head. God, I need a fucking painkiller.

He dragged himself to the toilet and stared at his scruffy and sleep-ruffled reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Tyler gagged, his bowels heaved, and he vomited.

He fell into a faint, head hitting the cold marble tiles, but he felt no pain, no more pain, as his consciousness slinked away.

Pogue's cell phone vibrated away in his pocket, and he grudgingly answered it. It was Caleb.

"Pogue?"

"What's up, man, hurry up 'cause I'm screwing Kate right now."

"Very fucking funny, Pogue. Coach says there's gonna be swimming practice at five this evening."

"Hell no. It's freaking Saturday and my thighs are aching like mad from yesterday's swim."

"You know we gotta do this if were going to beat Quincy Public and Worcester Institute. Those Worcester idiots are huge, man. I swear they're getting away with doping or some drug shit."

Pogue paused. "You didn't just call me to tell me this, did you?"

"No."

"Well?"

"Tyler didn't go back to his dorm last night. Reid sound really worried when he called me 'bout it, so I don't think it's a joke. And I can't get through to Ty's cell. He's not picking up I guess."

"Uh-huh."

"Any idea?"

Pogue's brow wrinkled in a moment's thought. Tyler? Surprising. What was up with him? "Nope. But I could scout round in my bike and ask some people who may have seen him, stuff like that."

"Yeah, thanks, man. Swimming practice at five."

"I know, dammit. Bye."

Pogue hung up and headed towards his motorcycle, putting on his leather jacket and helmet while he walked. He had a pretty good idea where Tyler was.

The back room of Nicky's bar was clogged with boxes and junk. Amongst the mess was a run-down bed. Pogue headed towards the toilet, and found, amidst puddles of vomit, an unconscious Tyler.

Crap.

"Ty?" said Pogue while gently moving Tyler onto his back. Pogue's fingers searched for Tyler's pulse. Slow, but there. Pogue bodily lifted Tyler up with his arms, grunting with the exertion, and carried him to the bed. Pogue's hands rubbed Tyler's face, bringing a blush back to the formerly bloodless and ashen cheeks.

And Tyler opened his eyes ever so slowly, and Pogue sighed in relief. But wait . . . Tyler's eyes . . .

Were flaring.

And now they were black.

Too late.

Pogue made a perfectly curved trajectory across the back room, slamming into the plaster of the walls. And Tyler walked with a dreadful calmness out of the room, leaving Pogue to slip from physical pain into the anaesthesia of unconsciousness.

I need a fucking painkiller. A painkiller. A painkiller. PAINKILLER.

Tyler tried to ease his throbbing head by massaging it, to no avail.

God, my fucking head. Fuck everybody.

Tyler headed towards his Hummer. He could still taste the acidic tinge of bile and vomit in his mouth. He swallowed, trying to get the taste away.

Tyler drove unsteadily, unthinking, and was only fully aware of the vicious headache he was experiencing.

He jammed hard on the brakes when he reached the pharmacy.

Fucking pharmacist is going to fucking die if he doesn't give me painkillers.

Tyler stormed into the pharmacy and began looking wildly for headache relievers. He grabbed one and paid for it. The pharmacist stood as far away from Tyler as he could, glad that the counter was between them both. For Tyler was indeed a sight – splotches of vomit on his shirt, grimy and messy hair, features contorted in pain, and bloodshot eyes. Must be one hell of a headache.

And Tyler sat in the back seat his Hummer and swallowed the whole pack of painkillers.

Sometimes I don't even know what I'm writing. Oh well. I'll do my best to make the next chapter a lot better. I've just been caught up with my studies lately. College is not all it's hyped up to be.

Ideas, prompts, etc. are all welcomed. I need them. (Sigh)