2018 - 5 months before the earthquake

"I think this is a big mistake," Dr. Harmon said.

Chad was unmoved. "I know what you think but that shit has turned him into a zombie," he said. He'd already told the therapist about a score of issues they'd had in the past week alone but he thought he'd throw one more on. "He couldn't figure out how to open a jar yesterday. A jar. Do you have any idea how depressing it is to see someone reduced to tears over simple mechanics?"

"He's only been on it for two months-"

"Give him another two and he'll be a complete vegetable." Chad frowned, suddenly suspicious. "Is that what you're aiming for?"

"Of course not." Ben sat forward in his rolling chair and propped his elbows on his thighs. "The goal was to suppress Tate's nightmares. From what we've seen, the plan worked. Am I right?"

Chad pursed his lips in a sour expression. "Yes."

"Well, what we need to do now is adjust his medication," the doctor said reasonably. "Taking him off cold turkey would be a lot worse than what you've described."

"Yes, well," said Chad. "It would have been nice to know about the withdrawal symptoms before we agreed to give it to him."

"You should consider just scaling back the dosage but if you're determined to take him off the zolpidemin, I can prescribe some hydrocodone for the symptoms and benzodiazepine to help him sleep. ProSom should work."

"You want us to give him two drugs to get him off of one?" Chad asked in a tone that questioned Ben's sanity.

Ben shrugged. "It's either that or four weeks of hell. It's your choice."

Chad crossed his ankles and folded his arms over his middle. He wanted to talk this over with Patrick but he'd refused to come. "You're sure this will work?"

"It will get him off the zolpidemin," said Dr. Harmon. "But the nightmares will come back and they'll probably be worse. It's one of the side effects of stopping usage. There's nothing we can do about that."

"Oh. Perfect. This just keeps getting better," Chad said. He thought it over then sighed in resignation. "Do I just swap out his pills? Or do I still have to keep giving him the other stuff?"

"Gradually decrease the zolpidemin dosage over the next two weeks," advised the therapist. He picked up a notepad and started writing. "After fourteen days you should only be giving him the hydrocodone and the ProSom."

Chad felt ill at ease but he was lost at sea where it came to prescription drugs. "How long do we give him those?"

"Four weeks," Ben said. "So keep giving them to him for two weeks after you stop the zolpidemin. You'll want to give him the hydrocodone every eight hours. The ProSom should be taken at bedtime." He tore the sheet off and handed it to Chad. "Here are the instructions. I'll get you the prescriptions."

... .

Tate crouched on the floor of the bathroom, clutching his head. He didn't know it but he was over a week into Dr. Harmon's detox plan. It might have helped him to know. Everything he was experiencing might have made more sense.

He typically had strong mood swings but his feelings were all over the map the past few days. One minute he felt great: Energetic, happy and optimistic. Everything in existence was perfect. The next minute he was sure there were monsters everywhere lurking just out of sight. They crept through the ceilings and whispered behind the wallpaper. He didn't know where they came from but he knew they were worse than any ghost he'd encountered. They could eat him up.

The nightmares had returned with a vengeance. Pain, blood, violence, death. And so much decay. Sometimes he woke up screaming, sitting straight up in bed. He couldn't remember those dreams. He didn't even try. The last two nights he hadn't slept at all. He found he still felt tired, just like he would if he were alive and sleep-deprived. Stuff like that made it really hard to believe he was dead sometimes. Times like now.

"And much of madness and more of sin," he whispered to himself. He stared unblinking at the floor. Reciting poems kept his mind busy so he couldn't think too much. "And horror... the soul of the plot. But see amid the rot a crawling... a crawling shape intrude."

He let go of his head and got to his feet. "It writhes... it writhes..." He looked in the mirror and saw a wild-eyed child looking back at him. "The mimes become its food. And seraphs sob at vermin fangs... in human... gore imbued."

He put his hands on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror, closer to the strange little boy in it. Then he was standing on the sink, his hands pressed to the glass. He let his forehead rest against it and he shut his eyes for a moment. A tidal wave of blood washed over his thoughts. The heads of people he'd seen die bobbed and tumbled over each other in the wave, screaming in rage and pain. Drowning in their own blood.

Tate opened his eyes and blinked hot tears away. "All hail the conquering worm."

Then he gave a primal scream and pounded on the on the mirror with his fists till cracks formed in the glass. Jagged shards cut his hands but he kept pounding. Blood spattered the sink, the walls. It ran down the broken mirror.

The door flew open and Chad rushed in, drawn by the destruction and noise. When he saw Tate he grabbed him, putting one arm around the boy's middle and the other over his arms at the elbows. He quickly carried him out of the bathroom, brushing past Moira as he went. She stepped back a little to give them room.

Tate screamed hysterically and thrashed so frantically that Chad nearly dropped him. To maintain control he sat down - harder than he wanted to - and repositioned his grip so that he had Tate's back pressed to his chest. He caught the boy's flailing arms again and held them down, ignoring the blood for now.

"Tate," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. It was a feat considering how freaked out he was over the boy's outburst. "Tate. Breathe."

In his hysteria Tate completely believed what he saw and felt. He was trapped. He couldn't get away. He struggled but he was just a little boy and Chad was bigger than he was. It wasn't easy for Chad to hold onto him but he managed. Eventually Tate exhausted himself and collapsed, sobbing.

Chad didn't know what else to do other than keep holding him. Then he noticed Moira.

"What are you staring at?" he demanded. "Go clean up the bathroom. There's glass everywhere."

The old woman frowned. "What's wrong with him?"

"They cancelled Sesame Street," Chad said snidely. He didn't have the time or patience for prying questions.

The maid gave him a sour look and went into the bathroom.

He loosened his grip and turned Tate around. The boy buried his face in Chad's shoulder. He was still crying but he wasn't making any noise now. Chad could feel the way the silent sobs wracked the little body he held and it made his stomach churn. He wanted to call for Patrick - he could use the assistance - but he didn't want to assume responsibility for Tate's emotional breakdown. And Patrick would blame him, he knew. Mostly because they both knew Chad was at least partly to blame.

So he awkwardly pushed himself up off the floor, bringing Tate up with him. The boy clung to him, making the task a little easier. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said as he carried him to the stairs.

By the time Chad got him to the upstairs bathroom Tate had calmed down. Chad erred on the side of caution and kept the boy faced away from the mirror. He sat him down on the closed toilet then he looked at Tate's hands. He hadn't healed them; they were still dripping blood.

Chad thought he could trust the boy long enough to go to the medicine cabinet. He pulled out bandages and medical tape and ointments and thought again about how he should really be calling Patrick. The man was an EMT, for Christ's sake.

Tate sat on the toilet staring at the blood collecting on the floor. It was pretty. Pretty little red rain drops. Nothing was quite like blood. When it ran it was one color. When it pooled it was another. When it dried it turned a whole new shade and got flakey. But it was prettiest when it was fresh.

He'd finger painted with it once, on some cardboard. But it was too hard to keep the wounds open long enough to get much done; they kept swelling shut. He thought he could paint with what was dripping out of his hands now. Paint rhymed with taint. It's what they'd called him in school: Taint.

He felt like he was wrapped in cotton. The wounds on his hands didn't hurt. The painkillers he didn't know he was on made the sensation completely negligible. He figured he must be sleeping. His nightmares were so real these days, this had to be one of them.

"Why can't I wake up?" he asked.

Chad glanced over. "You're not asleep."

The tone was mild but the words stabbed into Tate like a hot knife regardless. There was no waking up. There was no getting out. There was just a forever of fighting back everything that had, in life, shredded him from the inside out. Fresh tears slid down his face.

"Is this hell?"

Chad stopped pawing through the medical supplies. He didn't answer immediately but looked at himself in the mirror instead. Then he really thought about the question. Finally he said, quietly, "Yes."

Despair welled up inside Tate. He already knew the answer but hearing someone else confirm it brought him so much anguish. The pain inside was like a hunger pang only there was no urge to fill it. Nothing could. It just hurt. He hiccupped a sob and pressed his hands to his eyes in a futile effort to stop the tears.

Chad went over to him. "Don't do that," he said gently. He caught Tate's wrists. "You're getting blood everywhere."

"I wanna die."

Chad sighed and put his arms around the boy. "You already did."

Tate wrapped his arms around Chad's waist and really started to cry then. It was a heart-wrenching, tortured sound to hear anyone make. It brought tears to Chad's eyes.

The door opened and Patrick stuck his head in. Chad looked over and, seeing him, was flooded with relief. For the past few minutes he'd been urging the other man to join them. He'd almost given up hope that he'd come.

Patrick saw the mess of medical supplies, the blood and the state of the people in the bathroom and tried to make sense of it all. "What happened?" He came all the way into the room and shut the door.

Chad didn't know where to begin. Tate's sorrow was contagious. "He had a meltdown. Can you do something about his hands? He's not healing himself..."

Pat took a few things from the supplies on the counter and brought them over to where Tate sat. The boy's crying jag had nearly run its course. By the time Patrick had gathered towels and wetted a washcloth Tate had fallen silent again. Chad released him and went to the sink to get out of Pat's way and to wash off his hands. He tried to ignore the blood that was all over his Gucci shirt.

"Does it hurt?" Pat asked.

Tate shook his head. He was staring at the floor again.

Patrick patched up the cuts and bandaged Tate's hands. Then he cleaned the blood off. Chad came back over to help, tackling the mess on the floor while Patrick cleaned up the kid. Once everything was clean again and the medical supplies were put away, Patrick looked at Chad.

"Bring the DVD player to Tate's room," he said. "Let's watch something. Something upbeat."

Chad nodded and left to go change and collect the portable entertainment. Patrick went over to Tate. He thought about asking him to come along but after consideration he bent and scooped him up instead. Tate didn't resist; he just sagged against the man's chest. Pat carried him out of the bathroom.

... .

Author's Note:

This is Chad's idea of helping someone. Imagine if he wanted really wanted to mess with them.

So as the cover art hints, this episode's kind of Tate-centric. The poem he was trying to remember in the bathroom is called "The Conquering Worm" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Next chapter: Flashbacks and therapy.