Warning…Graphic content.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The agitation started soon after he took the last of the pills at the courthouse. He knew much of it was because he didn't have access to his supplies, and he managed to remain fairly controlled. But as he continued with his testimony, his anxiety grew, and he knew it was due to more than just not being able to pop a pill. "Home," he thought. "I've got to get home." The judge finally dismissed him, and he paced as he waited for Alex to finish speaking with Ross. "Oh, God," he thought. "They know…They're ashamed of me…" He was about to rush out of the courthouse and grab a cab when Alex turned to him.
He kept her out of the house, but felt horribly guilty. The oxycontin took the edge off his anxiety and the pain away for a while, but soon after he flushed the last of the pills down the toilet, a cramp started in his stomach and circled around to his back. Several minutes later, a wave of nausea sent him into his bathroom, and he just made it to the toilet before he violently threw up. He fell to his knees and leaned heavily on the ceramic bowl. "Oh, God…Getting rid of all of it at once was not a good idea…" He lurched to his feet and frantically searched through the cabinets. He fell to the floor, seizing the empty pill bottles and desperately shaking them to see if any pills remained. He emptied the trash basket and rummaged through its contents. He crawled on the floor and looked for any pills that might have escaped. It became terribly clear that he'd thrown out all of the pills. He dragged himself to his feet and stared at his reflection in the mirror. "Oh, no," he muttered. "I've become the man I thought was my father…I've become my brother." Bobby had worked Narcotics and seen his brother go through withdrawal. He knew things were going to get worse—much worse—unless he found something to appease his body and mind, and found it fast. "There…There must be something," he thought. "The scrips…I have the scrips…I just need to get them refilled…" Another wave of pain and nausea swept over him. The pain forced him to his knees. He crawled to the toilet and threw up again. He slumped to the floor and curled up in a ball. He began to shiver and sweat flooded his body. "Oh, God," he thought. "Look what I've become…I'm sick and lying on my bathroom floor…Maybe I deserve this…"
He had no idea of time. He couldn't drag himself to his feet, let alone go into the kitchen to get his prescriptions. He couldn't even remember where his cell phone was. The minutes blurred into a haze of pain and fever and chills. He couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing. At several points he wasn't sure he knew who he was. He occasionally struggled to get to his feet or even just to his knees, but waves of pain and sickness stopped him. During his few lucid moments, he lay whimpering on the floor. He dimly remembered that he was supposed to call Alex. If he didn't call, he knew she would call him, and when he didn't answer, she would come looking for him. "Can't," he thought. "Can't let her see me like this." He fought to get to his knees, seized the edge of the counter, and pulled himself up to stand. He leaned heavily on the counter for a moment, and then the nausea and pain hit him. He was on the floor again. Sweat and vomit covered him, and he felt even sicker. He realized there was blood in the horrible mix as well.
"I'm dying," he thought. "I'm dying…Oh, God…Please…Don't let Alex find me like this…Please…
END CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Again, my knowledge of drug withdrawal is based on fiction and cursory research. I apologize for anything I've gotten wrong.