Chapter 22 #2
“You said I could ask,” I continued quietly. “If the . . . other stuff stopped doing it for me.”
Her eyes widened in immediate understanding, and she nodded. “Yeah,” she said, stepping aside. “Yeah, come in.”
The room was musty, heavy with stale smoke, alcohol, and bad decisions. The curtains were still drawn. Bella lay face down on one of the beds, naked from the waist up, dead to the world.
Trix dropped onto her own bed and dragged a rucksack closer with her foot.
“So,” she asked, rummaging inside. “What’re you after? I’ve got coke if you need a pick-me-up. God knows I do after last night.”
“Um.” My throat felt tight. “Do you have any Oxy?”
She glanced up at me and smirked. “Ah,” she said. “So, you wanna relax. I’ve got you.”
She dug around a moment longer before pulling out a small plastic bag filled with white pills.
The sight of them made my mouth water.
It had been months since I’d seen Oxy in real life. The last time had been before I overdosed. Before I’d taken more than usual, which turned out to be far too much. That should’ve been enough to disgust me. Enough to make me recoil.
Instead, my fingers twitched.
Trix opened the bag, took out a single pill, and dropped it into the open palm I hadn’t even realised I’d extended. The second it landed, I closed my fist and yanked my arm back, like she might change her mind and take it away.
She didn’t notice. She was already pulling out her weed, distracted.
“How much do I owe you?” I croaked, staring at my clenched hand.
She waved me off. “This one’s on me,” she said easily. “You look rough. Go have fun.”
I nodded. Mumbling a thank you, I turned and left.
I practically sprinted through the corridors, desperate to get back to my room before I ran into anyone. Before I ran into Bodhi. If he saw me now, he really would hate me. Worse, he might try to stop me.
When my door closed behind me, I sagged with relief. I padded to the bed, sat on the edge, and opened my hand. The pill was tiny. Barely bigger than a lentil. Small and unassuming and dangerous as hell.
People said the best things came in small packages. Once, I might’ve agreed. Staring down at it now, all I could feel was resentment. For what it had almost taken from me, or how easily it still owned me.
That didn’t stop the need from surging through my veins. The buzzing in my chest. The way it spread into my limbs until not taking it felt unbearable. My heart pounded, loud in my ears, equal parts fear and anticipation.
With shaking fingers, I tipped the pill onto my tongue. Grabbed the half-empty bottle of water from the nightstand and swallowed.
It was unceremonious. Almost disappointing.
For a moment, I felt fine.
Then the panic hit.
It wasn’t from the pill. It was because I’d taken it.
I’d thrown away months of sobriety in a single swallow. Shattered my recovery with one decision I couldn’t take back.
Sweat beaded along my hairline. My breaths came too fast, too shallow, my chest rising and falling like I couldn’t quite catch up with myself.
My lips tingled, numb, and pins and needles prickled at the tips of my fingers.
I bolted upright and staggered into the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet.
A sob tore out of me and echoed around the bowl.
I gripped the seat so hard my fingers ached.
I needed to throw up. Needed to shove my fingers down my throat and get the Oxy out before it finished dissolving. It wouldn’t undo everything, but maybe it would blunt the worst of it. Maybe I could claw back some semblance of control. My dignity. My willpower.
The nausea curling in my stomach felt like permission.
But my arm wouldn’t move.
My fingers stayed locked around the porcelain, nails digging in as tears streamed down my face. I sobbed because I couldn’t make myself do it. Couldn’t make myself get rid of the pill I knew was already seeping into my bloodstream.
Because I wanted it.
I wanted the high. The floaty warmth. The relief. I felt like I deserved it. No. I needed it. After everything that had happened, I needed the world to go quiet for a few hours. I needed to turn my feelings off.
Fuck work. Fuck the band.
Fuck Trix for giving me the pill.
Fuck my brother for being the perfect child.
Fuck my parents for never caring.
Fuck Marc for saying the things he did and meaning every word.
Fuck Bodhi.
Fuck him for trusting me when I didn’t deserve it. For loving me when I had nothing left to give back.
And fuck me most of all.
Fuck me for being broken. For being selfish. For being a waste of space.
In the end, I wasn’t worth loving. I was an addict. And that was all I’d ever be.
I let go of the toilet and lowered myself onto the floor. The cool tiles pressed pleasantly against my overheated skin. I curled onto my side, knees pulled tight to my chest, arms wrapped around myself as I stared at a scuff mark on the side of the bath.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. An hour. Five. Time stopped meaning anything.
Then suddenly, I felt incredible.
Then suddenly, it hit.
Not all at once like a punch. It was like sinking.
Like slipping beneath the surface of warm water and realising, with stunned relief, that I didn’t have to fight to stay afloat.
My body loosened in slow stages, tension unspooling from my muscles as if invisible hands were untangling me strand by strand.
My chest expanded on a deep, unforced breath, the first one all day that didn’t hurt.
The noise vanished. The constant hum in my head, the anxious buzzing, the self-loathing chorus that never shut up, it all faded into something distant and irrelevant. Not gone, exactly, just muted. Padded. Like the world had been wrapped in cotton and gently set aside.
My limbs felt light, buoyant, like gravity had decided I’d carried enough for one lifetime. The ache in my hip dissolved into a dull memory, then into nothing at all. Even the guilt softened, edges blunted until it couldn’t cut me anymore.
I laughed once under my breath, a small, disbelieving sound.
This was it.
This was what I’d been chasing without admitting it. Not chaos or destruction. This quiet, perfect suspension where nothing hurt and nothing mattered and I didn’t have to be anything for anyone.
I drifted. By the time I pushed myself up, it felt like I was moving through syrup, slow and deliberate, every step cushioned. I wandered back into the bedroom and shed my clothes as I went, movements lazy, almost reverent. Leggings. Socks. Bodhi’s hoodie. Letting them fall wherever they landed.
My skin prickled, a familiar itch blooming under the surface, but even that felt manageable now. It was a small price to pay. I scratched absently as I collapsed onto the bed, spreading myself wide, surrendering to the mattress like it might absorb me entirely.
The high deepened, wrapped around me, warm and complete, and I finally felt okay. More than okay.
I felt exactly where I was supposed to be.