Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
JENSEN
THEN
APRIL
Fuck me.
I feel like I’m going to die. My insides might actually explode.
I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw as a sharp pain rips through my core, twisting hot and tight inside my stomach.
“Gah! Fuck.” The words scrape out of me, my voice strained.
I have to get through this. I have to get off these fucking pills. Alley still doesn’t know, but it’s only a matter of time. I’m a ticking time bomb. A goddamn terrorist in my own house, keeping secrets from my wife. Waiting to be discovered at any moment.
The last pill I took was Friday night. It’s Sunday morning. If I can survive this weekend, I’ll go into tomorrow’s workday pill-free, pain be damned.
Yesterday, I was anxious as hell. I couldn’t sit still. I was tired and restless. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, and I was sweating like a guilty bastard who just fucked the preacher’s daughter.
Then came the argument. It was so stupid.
I left my breakfast plate on the coffee table, and all Alley did was ask me to take it to the dishwasher.
She asked nicely. It’s something I’d normally do.
But my body was already screaming, and her request just set me off.
You’d think she asked me to climb a goddamn mountain.
I snapped.
I grabbed the plate and chucked it into the dishwasher, muttering under my breath about what a stupid fucking ask it was. Then I asked her why she couldn’t just do this one thing for me when I felt like shit. I stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
God, I’m such an asshole.
Rolling onto my back, I scrub a hand over my face. Jesus. I don’t deserve her.
That’s why I’m powering through this. I’m gonna do it. I have to, for her.
This year’s been a slippery fucking slope. Not long after New Year’s, my two-a-day turned into three.
I need three pills just to feel normal. They don’t even make me feel good anymore. Three just get me to baseline—a shitty one at that. They work better than anything else, though, and I’m only taking them to manage the pain. But still, I don’t want to be on them.
Alley would lose her shit if she knew. She already suspects something.
The arguments have become a weekly routine.
I feel like she’s always on my ass, always nagging.
I know that’s not fair. She’s not. But Jesus, I’m just trying to survive the day.
I have to provide, keep this life that we have together.
It’s the pills. I know it is—because the second they wear off, I’m a fucking animal. Like a bear that’s been poked too many times behind a cage. One wrong word and I snap.
I apologized later when she came into the room. I told her I didn’t feel good, that it was the stomach flu or something similar. Of course she believed me. She was understanding. She even kissed my forehead and told me she loved me.
She’s been waiting on me hand and foot since then. Made me soup yesterday. Rubbed my shoulders. Even laughed at my stupid joke when I was curled up on the couch like a fucking gremlin. She’s taking care of me like I deserve it.
But I don’t.
The door creaks open, and the voice of an angel drags me from my misery. “Hey,” she says, her footsteps drawing closer. The bed dips as she sits beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. I’m too ashamed.
“How you doing?” Her fingers rake gently through my damp hair. “Can I get you anything?”
I shake my head as nausea rises, unexpected and fast. My stomach clenches, and bile surges up my throat, hurling me forward.
Gripping the bowl beside me, I dry heave until splashes of yellow hit the bottom.
Acid scorches on the way up, molten lava weaving through my gut, heat penetrating every nerve ending.
I clamp up, sweat beading down my forehead, my hair drenched. Alley rubs my leg—and it’s sweet, thoughtful. I know she means well, but her touch feels like nails on a chalkboard against the tornado of hell thrashing inside me.
I try to air out my shirt, peeling the sticky fabric from my skin. It’s soaked. I yank it off, tossing it to the floor. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I push the bowl to the side, too weak to deal with it. Alley takes it, placing it gently on the nightstand.
I collapse back onto the pillow, chills setting in now, rattling through me. My bones ache. Every nerve feels like it’s being sawed through with a dull blade.
It’s pure fucking torture.
“I’m so hot, but so fucking cold at the same time,” I mutter, my teeth chattering as I pull the comforter up to my chin.
Alley presses her wrist to my forehead, frowning. “That’s weird, you don’t feel hot. You’re having chills?” Her gaze shifts to the bowl—foamy, yellow bile—and I see it in her face. She knows something doesn’t add up.
Her hand falls to my shoulder, her thumb brushing gently.
“Fuck! Don’t touch me!” I snap, grimacing.
She goes still, her hand slowly pulling back, but she doesn’t move away.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, babe. Please don’t touch me. It hurts.” My throat tightens. Jesus Christ, I’m going to cry. No. Hell no—
A sob wrenches from my chest before I can stop it, and I fucking hate myself for it.
“It hurts. Everything hurts.”
My eyes flick toward her—and the look on her face guts me. Concern. Worry. Suspicion. Love.
But yeah… she definitely knows something’s off.
“I’m so sorry, babe. What can I get you?” she asks softly.
“Nothing.” My voice is barely audible. My breaths are short and sharp through my gritted teeth as another wave of indescribable pain crashes through me.
“This is pretty intense for a stomach virus. Do you wanna go to the ER?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, harder this time, like not seeing her will make the questions stop. Make her stop. Make her leave.
God, I hate having her see me like this. Fucking weak.
I manage to shake my head.
It’s quiet for a moment.
Then the shaking starts. Fuck me sideways, the shaking. Dear God, it’s like my bones are vibrating, like someone plucked a chord deep in my spine and now I’m shuddering with pain. Every part of me feels like it’s been beaten with a sledgehammer.
A sound escapes my lips. Jesus Christ. Did I just whimper?
“Babe…” Her voice is low and steady, but I can hear the fear woven through it. “I’m getting worried. This isn’t normal.”
Her fingers move to my wrist, checking my pulse, quiet and subtle. I feel the weight shift from the bed.
“I’m getting you some water. You need to stay hydrated.”
I barely hear her. I don’t know which way is up or down. I just want this to end.
The bed dips again. “Hey. Jensen. Here. Take a sip.”
She guides a straw to my lips, but I turn my head away.
“Babe, you’re sweating like crazy and puking bile. You’re going to get worse if you don’t get fluids in you.”
I still don’t drink.
“Jensen,” she says again, this time firmer. “You have to drink something.”
Her voice cracks, and it’s like a dagger to my chest. I open my eyes and force myself onto an elbow, just high enough to take the straw into my mouth and sip.
The cold liquid slides down my throat, and immediately sends my stomach into convulsions.
I dry heave. Tears sting as the burn threatens to rise.
“Shit,” Alley says, grabbing the bowl and thrusting it in front of me.
The heaving worsens, and motherfucking God, it hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt. Every gut-wrenching spasm hits on a level I didn’t know existed. Every centimeter of my body quivers with pain too intense to describe.
The tiny sip of water I managed ends up in the bowl.
And I break.
I fucking break.
A “fuck” bursts out, tangled in a cry. Gripping my hair, I pull tight as sobs tremble through me, each one ripping from my chest in a shudder through clenched, chattering teeth.
I collapse back against the pillow, wishing someone would just put me out of my misery. I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to do this anymore.
But there is something that can make it better…
My mind wanders to the ibuprofen bottle. No. Jesus, no. I’m not going through this shit for nothing.
“Babe,” Alley whispers. “You need fluid. I’ll get a cup of crushed ice. Sorry, I should’ve brought that in the first place. I’ll be back.”
It feels like an eternity before she returns, and even though I want her gone, I like when she’s close by. It’s less terrifying.
“Here. Try an ice chip.”
The cold touches my lip, and I shake my head. “No.”
“Babe, if you can’t keep the ice down, we have to go in. You need fluids. If I had an IV kit, I’d do it myself.”
I reluctantly open my mouth because there’s no way in hell I’m going in. I let the cold liquid coat my tongue, sucking softly. I don’t heave.
“Good, babe. We’ll have another one in ten minutes, okay?”
I nod, and even though I’m not looking at her, I know she’s crying.
“Do you want me to stay?” she whispers.
I nod again, tears soaking my cheeks as I reach for her hand. My fingers find hers, gripping tightly, holding on like she’s my lifeline—like she’s the only thing between me getting through this and dying trying.
She grips my hand back. “I’m right here,” she says soothingly. And for a moment, I don’t even care that it feels like a mother speaking to her child. Because I need her.
More than anything. I fucking need her.
I wake in a puddle of water. No–sweat. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep. But within seconds, reality slams back in. This isn’t over, dumbass.
I’m shivering. Chills whip through me like a fucking storm, relentless. I curl into myself, trying not to cry like a goddamn baby.
I reach for my phone with shaky fingers, checking the time. It’s 2:00 AM. My hell. When is this going to end? I have work today. I can’t just not go.
I swipe up, fingers trembling, and open my browser.
How long do withdrawal symptoms from oxy last.
Fuck me. They peak at day three, then slowly subside. Day three? That’s tomorrow night. I can’t take work off all week. And I can’t fucking take this anymore.
I try to be rational—tell myself I can take a few days off. It’s only one more day. Then the worst of it will be over. But then, maybe not. This site says symptoms last five to seven days. I can’t do this for five more days. I can barely do five more minutes.
I could try again next weekend. Take Monday off, and start Friday night. Prepare. I’ll freeze electrolyte cubes. Stock Tylenol and ibuprofen. Prep everything in advance. Take my last pill Friday, work from home Tuesday.
I’ll plan it better. I’ll know what to expect.
Guilt comes crashing in as I push the covers off because I’ve already made up my mind. I’m desperate—desperate for anything to pull me out of this fucking deathbed.
I sit up, barely steady on my feet. God, I’m weak. Everything inside me screams.
I shuffle to the door, stopping to rest against it. Making my way down the hall, I lean and bump into the walls with every step. My vision blurs. My knees buckle. I grip the wall like it might give me strength. When I round the corner into my office, my eyes lock on my backpack.
Dropping to my hands and knees, I fucking crawl to it. With trembling hands, I tug the zipper open, just enough to slide my hand inside. The fabric brushes against my skin, sending an aching chill up my arm, straight to the core of my bones. It takes everything in me to not cry out.
My fingers find the bottle, barely able to hold on. I pull it out and drop to my ass, slumping against the wall, head tipped back, eyes fixed on the label. My arms rest on my knees, feet flat on the floor. I swallow, blinking back the failure burning behind my eyes.
I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate myself in this moment. Right here. Right now.
I unscrew the lid, tilt the bottle, and let the little white pill fall into my palm. My fingers curl around it, clenching tight. My jaw locks. My breathing’s heavy. Hands shaking. And that sting of failure slips down my cheek.
For the first time in my life, I’m fucking terrified. I’ve never come up against a fight I couldn’t win. And this isn’t just a battle I’m losing. It’s one I’ve already surrendered to.
I’ve fucking quit.
I place the pill on my tongue, letting the now familiar, bitter taste seep into my taste buds.
I swallow.
The pill wins.