And my body is making me pay for every single hour.
I manage to get upright. The room spins. Not the lazy tilt of a good drunk, but something aggressive. Hostile. Like the walls are actively trying to throw me off balance. I press my palms against my eyes and try to breathe, but even my lungs feel wrong.
Too tight. Too fast.
My heart. Jesus Christ, my heart. It hammers at a pace that can't be normal. Can't be survivable. I press my hand against my chest and feel it slamming against my palm, rapid and unsteady, skipping beats, then racing to catch up.
Twenty-seven years old, and I'm going to die on a sagging couch in the middle of nowhere because I couldn't stay clean.
Father would be disappointed.
No. Father would be unsurprised.
"You're weak, William. Always have been."
I try to stand. My legs buckle. I catch myself on the arm of the couch, knees hitting the cold floor hard enough to send pain shooting up my thighs. The vomit is right there, the sour smell hitting my nostrils, and my stomach heaves again.
Nothing comes. Just the retching. The awful, empty retching that goes on and on until I'm gasping.
I need water. I need to get to the bathroom. I need to stop the room from moving.
I need cocaine.
The thought comes unbidden and absolute. Not a want. A need. The way you need oxygen. My body knows where it is.
Bedroom. False bottom drawer.
Enough to take the edge off. Enough to make this stop. Enough to feel human again for just a few hours.
Just one line. Just enough to stop the shaking.
I start crawling toward the bedroom. My arms won't hold me properly. I make it three feet before I collapse onto my stomach, cheek pressed against cold wood, breathing like I've just run ten miles.
Everything is spinning. The whole fucking world has come loose from its axis, and I'm the only one who notices.
"William?"
The voice comes from somewhere above me. Far away. Maybe another room. Maybe another country.
"William!"
Hands. Cold hands on my face, turning my head. Light floods my vision, and I flinch away from it.
"Oh God. William, can you hear me?"
Aoife. Her voice cuts through the fog, sharp and afraid. I try to answer, but what comes out is a sound I don't recognize.Something between a groan and a whimper that I'd be ashamed of if I had the capacity for shame right now.
"You're burning up." Her palm presses against my forehead. The coolness of it is so intense I lean into it. "Your heart, I can see it. Your chest is... William, what's happening?"
"Withdrawal." The word scrapes out like broken glass.
Her hands go still on my face.
I force my eyes open. She's crouched over me, dark hair falling around her shoulders, wearing my t-shirt from last night. Her blue eyes are wide. Terrified.
She says something. I see her mouth move. But the roaring in my ears swallows it.
Bedroom. I need to get to the bedroom.
