The Rink

chapter seven: plastic baggies

TRIGGER WARNING (drug/alcohol abuse, verbal/physical abuse, child neglect)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
this chapter is VERY heavy. please read the above triggering warnings. if you are triggered by any of the mentioned content, i advise you to use caution while reading this chapter.

"Hi." George replied, following Dream into his hotel room.

It was a small hotel room- just a simple bathroom and a main bedroom- with only two full-sized beds. Dream already had his duffel bag unpacked at the end of one of the beds, and the other bed beside it remained untouched. Dreams things were scattered about the bed on the right- his old AirPods, a lot of random pieces of clothing, two phone chargers, and some deodorant.

"Looks like you've made yourself at home already." George commented, looking down at Dream's belongings splayed about his bed.

Dream sat down on the bed next to his stuff and watched George closely as George sat on the other bed.

Dream was quiet for a second, not knowing how to start explaining what he promised George he would tell him about.

Dream looked George in the eyes quickly, then began putting his unpacked clothes into the hotel dresser (piece by piece) so he had something to do as he talked to George.

Dream didn't know why, but he couldn't stand to see the look on George's face when he told George about his mom. He didn't want to get the same reactions from George that he got from everyone else- shock, followed by empathy, then anger, and finishing off with faked comfort.

They'd start by saying "Are you serious?", then would come the "You don't deserve that" and Dream can't forget the "How can anyone do that to their child?", and ending with "If there's anything you need me to do, I'm here for you."

When Dream finally got out of his own head and started talking, he could instantly feel George's eyes laser-focused on him. It was like George was being held captive- like if he moved an inch or spoke a single word, he'd be shot.

Dream took in a deep breath. "The thing I always tell people about my parents is that they loved each other...until they didn't. I remember as a tiny kid, I'm talking age four or five, they were inseparable. They'd cook dinner together every night- dad would make the veggies and starch, and mom would cook the meat. They worked really well together and they both were really good cooks. I'm not sure where I got my horrible cooking skills from, to be honest."

George smiled faintly at Dream, floating in that small moment where Dream actually looked happy, recalling fond memories with his parents.

"My parents would...dance around the house together. They both loved Elvis. They thought he was the greatest guy to ever live. All over our basement was posters of Elvis along with dad's other celebrity treasure, Madonna. Mom and dad would put on the scratchy old radio in the kitchen and slow dance in circles for hours. They'd give each other kisses on the cheek, whisper into each other's ear...They were a perfect pair."

Dream smiled at his own story as he looked out the hotel window. His smile soon faded, as he turned back around to face George. Dream sat back down on the bed, having already put away all of his things and now he was distraction-less. He had to relive everything now as he retold these experiences to George, and that pained him to do.

"I can't quite remember a single moment that broke their relationship- I just remember mom coming home with little baggies. Small plastic bags, only big enough to hold maybe half of a sandwich in. They were 'mom's medicine bags', which is what she told me when I was eight- too young to understand what recreational drugs were. 'You are never to touch mommy's medicine bags, you understand?' she'd ask. The bags were too high up for me to reach anyway- she used to put them on top of our huge refrigerator, which I couldn't reach until I was eleven."