Afton Family Skits [OLD]

Addiction

Author's note~

Heyo! This is Evangeline, the writer of all of these skits. Well, right now it's just this one. Hopefully there will be more after this one. 

Just so you know - you can call me Evan for short.  :D
I know that my first name is long. Ironic, considering that my middle name and last name are both short. Evangeline Zoeih (literally Zoe but spelled weirdly) Wright. Ten-letter-long first name, five-letter-long middle and last names. Wow.

I've digressed! I tend to do that a lot. Either way, this skit is based off of the song "i can't get high" by Royal & the Serpent. That song is exactly what gave me the idea to make all of the little skits in my head into a book here on WattPad.

Here is the link to "i can't get high:" https://open.spotify.com/track/1tbGWHbbPihDSinp2Xg7Uz?si=e77c2299c66a4b01

I only use Spotify, if you can't tell. I don't have any other accessible links to give you the song, so if you don't use Spotify, just search up the song on any other app/website that you use. 

Okay, I should probably shut up now. Let's get to the story!

~ ~ ~

P.O.V: Michael

I tap my foot on the stone floor, my shoe making a clicking sound that is obviously annoying the guard in front of my cell. I know that I should probably stop so that I don't get yelled at, but I don't really care. My mind is a mess and is really fuzzy, and I'll already be yelled at when someone comes to bail me out. I don't remember who I had the police call to get me out of this smelly place, but it doesn't matter. If I called Father, he'll be interrogating me and scolding me for what I did. If it's Henry, he'll ask me what happened, but won't force me to tell him if I don't answer, and will advise me against doing it again. If I called Noah, he'll go nuts and start to worry about me again, try to get me to see another psychiatrist that will only give me more medications that simply don't work. If I idiotically called Marilyn, well... I don't want to think about that. 

"Hey, Afton!" the guard shouts, then bangs his large fist on the thick steel bars. "Your honey's here."

"For the last fucking time, my last name is Schmidt," I grumble. Sure, I don't love the fact that Marilyn won't sign the divorce papers, but it still annoys me when people call me by my old last name. 

"Mike!" a familiar voice squeals, but my mind is too overloaded with "anti-crazy drugs" to place it. I barely recognize anybody's voice nowadays, not unless it's Evan's or Henry's. For some reason, those voices always seem to stick in my head. 

I look up slowly, then exhale the breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. Thank God, I think. I called Noah. I stand up slowly and walk the few feet to the entrance of the jail cell. Noah's trying to rush the guard to open the door faster, and I start to laugh. Partially because it's funny on how he wants be back, partially because I'm questioning why he even wants me back in the first place. All I've done is cause nothing but trouble--the fact that he remains my friend with how many problems I get him into is beyond me.

The instant the metal door opens, Noah rushes inside and wraps me in a tight hug. By the way he's breathing heavy, he's on the verge of tears. But why? How on this cursed world does he still give a shit about me?

"Hey," I say weakly, knowing that I'm going to be shouted at in a few seconds. "Thanks for bailing me out."

Noah leaves the hug and holds my arms together at my sides, his eyes inspecting every little centimeter of my being. My whole body is damp and slicked with water and sweat, my hair is the messiest it's been in weeks, my shoe is untied, and I can feel how my robotic leg is shifting beneath my weight because the buckles are loose. My Illusion Disk is almost dead, so there's splotches of purple all over me, and I know that my face is stained with dried blood from a nosebleed earlier. I might have a black eye, too, I don't know for certain. Add everything together, and you get a messed up retard with no organs beneath his ribcage and too much drugs in his system.

"You look horrible," Noah states sadly. He intertwines his left hand with my right and guides me out of this hellhole. As he leads me out to his car, he's talking to me, but I can't pay any attention. I'm tired, I'm cold, and too much has happened in the past hour for me to really care about anything that he's saying, anyway. 

All of a sudden, I run face-first into a door. My cheek stings and I can feel the nosebleed from earlier start up again. Noah starts to turn towards me to apologize, but I shout, "Don't look at me!" I see in the corner of my eye how fast his head whips back around, and I can tell that he knows I'm bleeding. If he saw the crimson liquid dripping from my nose, I'd have to deal with an unconscious Noah, and I'm too exhausted to deal with that kind of thing right now. 

Thirty minutes later, and I'm in Noah's bathroom, trying to stem the flow of blood still draining from my nose. I'm still surprised at the fact that he hasn't started to yell at me about what happened.

Why didn't I die? That was such a big impact, how am I not dead?

I shake my head aggressively to shake the thought out of my head. How do I keep forgetting this? I'm already dead. I can't die again!

It didn't even feel that fast...

"Nope, nope, not a chance. Not today!" I whisper-shout to myself. I shove a bunch of tissues into my nose, wipe the blood off of my lip with the back of my hand, and unlock the bathroom door. I don't want to hear anymore of these thoughts, so I'm going to stay with Noah.

When I step out of the bathroom, Noah's immediately on his feet. He looks at me, an array of feelings flashing across his face. Relief, worry, anger, sadness. But mostly worry. Seriously, how does this man still care about me? Has he been waiting for me?

"I was wondering when you were going to come out," Noah tells me quietly, an itty bitty smile on his face. But the smile is sad. "How're you feeling?"

I shrug halfheartedly. "Been better, been worse."

Should've gone faster. A lot faster.

Fuck. 

"I-I-- I think I need t-to go home," I stammer, holding my head so I won't start punching it. Noah looks at me, clearly concerned, and I know that it's going to take some convincing to let me leave. 

"Do you really want to deal with Marilyn this late? You know that she'll just be worse because it's so late and you crushed your car."

He's right. I know he's right. I really don't want to deal with Mary right now, but it has to be better than being here with the stupid intrusive thoughts. Maybe if I can get Noah to give me one of his many horror movies to watch on the television. Maybe that'll be enough to scare these stupid thoughts away. But will it? 

"I don't want to deal with her. But I need my meds," I say. "I'd stay, but..."

Noah put his hand on his hip. "Nice try, Mike. But there's not a chance in hell that I'd ever send you home right after I bailed you out of jail--especially when you were in jail because you were messing with your medications."

"I wasn't messing with them. I just... needed a break from reality, I guess."

Noah looks at me suspiciously. "You're staying the night. I don't trust you enough."

"No."

"Yes, Mike, you are. You've got to--you're in no condition to go home right now."