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the plunge, i.

Connor leaves his apartment terrified because he has to go to work and he still feels like he hasn't washed the blood off his skin. The whole ride there is spent anxiously itching his wrists, his leg, the back of his neck. The blood is thick and warm and he can feel it sliding down his shirt, but when he looks there's nothing there.

Annalise walks in a few moments after he does, not even attempting to hide her grief. Her hair isn't done, and there are remnants of tear tracks on her cheeks. Connor can't help but think I did that to her, me. He stares at the carpet instead of her eyes, and wonders if this will ever go away. The carpet doesn't answer, but Connor assumes it would have told him no.

-

He scratches his arm underneath his sleeve as they're being questioned, and he's sure the police notice the blood, too, because they take him aside after they finish. Michaela's eyes widen when he's led away, the cop's beefy fingers tight around his upper arm.

"Kid," the cop starts, then pauses as Connor scratches his arm. "Kid-" he tries again, but it's as if air's been sucked out of his lungs, and that's all he can say. Connor scratches harder, and he can't think, can't think anything but the blood, the blood, I have to get rid of the blood.

The cop reaches forward suddenly and grabs Connor's hand by the wrist, stilling him. "You're driving me insane, kid. Quit it." Connor swallows hard, and a smile slips onto his face. (He can't believe how easily, given the circumstances.)

"Sorry, sir. I've got a skin problem." There's blood caked all over it, and I can't scrub it off, not if I take a hundred showers. "Just a rash."

The cop furrows his brow, but doesn't mention it again. He asks Connor a few questions, then sends him off with a squeeze on the shoulder and a business card for Dr. Joan Mitchell's Dermatologist Practice.

Connor waves and smiles and promises to use the card when the cops go, and they smile back at him as they leave. The moment the door swings shut behind the last officer, Connor folds the business card into an airplane, and flies it into the trashcan.

-

Connor's on his way home when he reaches for his Adderall bottle and finds it empty. He makes a U-turn to stop in at the pharmacy, and picks up several bottles. He reads the back of one as he leaves the store -- ADHD medication, it tells him. Take only prescribed dosage. Stop taking Adderall immediately if feelings of extreme happiness or sadness occur, as you may have overdosed. He thinks, what the hell, and taps a handful into his palm. They look so innocent lying there, tiny blue pills, what could be the harm? Connor tips his head back and swallows all of them at once, because it's a fifty-fifty chance, and he couldn't possibly feel any sadder than he does in that moment. He drives home with foggy vision and shaking hands, and the keys fumble in the lock when he goes to unlock his door. (He giggles when he drops them, and for a second, Connor thinks there's a little kid on his porch. He laughs again when he doesn't see one, and he's so loud that the neighbors glance over at him from across the street.) He finally gets the door open, and stumbles into the house, slamming it shut behind him.

His heart is jackhammering in his chest like it never has before, and it terrifies him so badly that he decides to take some of his sleeping pills and sleep it off. He takes an Ambien and quickly passes out cold on the kitchen floor, the pill bottles lying empty next to him on the tiles. He takes more Adderall when he wakes up, for energy, (though he takes only two pills, so the effects aren't as noticeable), and then digs out the old bottle of Vicodin he'd hidden in his medicine cabinet from his wisdom tooth surgery. He finds that it helps him to forget everything. Connor feels like he's floating when he's high, and his skin prickles under his fingertips. It just what he wants, and he spends the next few weeks lying on the couch, thinking about nothing at all.