Misadventure

20

Louis' POV

"You missed the recital," Zayn told me Sunday morning the second I was awake. He was over in the kitchenette, brewing a pot of coffee.

I let out a shaky sigh, sitting up in bed with my back pressed against the headboard. "Fuck. Don't remind me." I felt horrendously nauseous at the moment, with a headache from hell to match.

I hadn't gotten enough heroin at the dealers the other day. I knew I hadn't, but there wasn't much I could do. It was too expensive. Now I was paying the price physically.

I'd have to drive to that part of London again today and see if I could turn anymore tricks for money, the idea of which wasn't helping my nausea.

I could always suck it up and ask Will to help me out. It wasn't ideal, but I really wasn't in any state to drive forty minutes, sleep with a couple of strangers, and drive all the way back before having a single hit.

"You can still make up the grade. You have a chance if you can be at the auditorium before noon."

"I'll think about it." (I thought about it. The answer was no. Thinking concluded). It was already almost eleven o'clock. Even if I just went to Will's place, there was no chance in hell I'd be back to campus by noon, and I wasn't capable of functioning without at least getting some form of opiates in my system. That was why I'd missed the recital in the first place.

"It's a huge chunk of your grade, Louis," Zayn said, and god, his voice was like nails on a chalkboard to my throbbing headache.

"I said I'll think about it. Fuck, why are you on my case man?"

He narrowed his eyes at me from across the room, where he was rummaging through the silverware drawer. "Because you're my friend, and I'm concerned about you."

"You barely even know me!" The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted the harsh tone in which I'd said them. I took a deep breath, scrubbing my hands down my face. "Sorry. I'm sorry, fuck... I didn't mean that. I'm just really exhausted."

The drawer made a sound as he closed it. He turned around to face me, then went quiet for a moment. Finally, he spoke in a gentle voice. "I say this with love... you look really unwell. You're face is getting hollow. When's the last time you've eaten, mate?"

"I've been ill. I've had the flu. I'll be fine." Fuck, I hated lying.

I hated myself for making choices that I had to lie in the first place, but I wasn't sure how to stop. This whole drug thing was getting so painfully out of hand. It wasn't fun anymore. It was destroying my life. I felt like the dumb little bug who naively wandered into a venus fly trap, enticed then deceived. I couldn't see a way out.

Zayn stared at me pointedly. "You know, you really shouldn't be downing a bottle of vodka every night if you're recovering from the 'flu'."

I feel my palms begin to sweat. My roommate had finally figured out what a hot mess I was. So what? I didn't matter what anyone else thought about me. This was fine. Everything was fine.

"Find me a college student who doesn't drink," I snapped. "I'm 18. I like liquor. Fucking sue me."

"You can do whatever you want, man. I just worry. That's all."

"I've got it under control," I insisted.

"Sure you do." He sighed, stirring cream and sugar into the steaming mug he was holding, then taking a long sip. "Look. If you don't want to talk about it, it's not like I can force you. And if you don't want to make up the grade for the recital you missed, that's your choice. You're going to flunk out, though."