𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐒|𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

Jaxon Ellis stirred on the ratty mattress he had been placed on soon after taking the drugs, feeling as though his head had been split in two. His temples throbbed with a very familiar, relentless dull ache that seemed to have somehow pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. As Jaxon opened his eyes, the harsh morning light pierced through the curtains, intensifying the pounding in his skull. His mouth was parched, like a desert that was devoid of moisture, and even swallowing felt like sandpaper scraping down his throat.

Jaxon slowly sat up, the mere action making him want to projectile vomit. As he glanced around the bedroom, he soon realized that this was not his house. Hell, it wasn't even his side of the island. Jaxon pressed a hand to the side of his temple, desperately trying to remember what had happened before he woke up feeling as if he had gotten ran over a thousand times. He remembered waking up this morning, making himself some homemade blueberry waffles (which tasted delicious by the way) before binge watching a bunch of cooking shows on tv. Then Rafe had called, asking if he had wanted to hang out. And then everything after that seemed to have blurred out into nothing.

Yet another low moan escaped Jaxon's lips as he clutched his stomach which had begun to churn uneasily, a rolling sea of nausea that threatened to rise with every breath. The room seemed to tilt slightly as he sat up, and he closed his eyes, pressing a palm to his forehead once more, hoping to steady the spinning world around him. Jaxon winced once he felt pain rush to his arm, his eyes flickering down to what seemed to be a needle stuck in his arm. He shrieked, yanking the object from his arm and throwing it across the room.

In that moment all of the memories seemed to hand come rushing back at once. Rafe asking to hang out, going over to Barry's trailer park, basically being forced to take deadly drugs to fulfill Rafe's sick desires. All of that had ended up in Jaxon lying on the floor of what he could only assume was Barry's bedroom, his lips parting yet no words able to escape. The bedroom door had opened, Barry's face forming into one of disgust and even slight concern as he stepped inside of the room.

"You look like hell, bro," Barry commented, trying his very hardest to not burst out into laughter. For this was all just one giant joke to him. He didn't care about Jaxon, or the fact that mere hours ago he had taken a deadly drug that he was more than capable of getting addicted to. As long as he had his money, he could sleep well at night, as sickening as that sounded. Jaxon managed to pick himself up from the ground, Barry grabbing his shoulders and turning him so he was able to stare at himself in the mirror. Sure enough he did look like hell. His face looked pale and drawn, almost grey under the harsh bedroom light, with dark circles smudged between his bloodshot eyes. His hair, wild and matted, stuck to his damp forehead in messy clumps, and his lips were dry and cracked, a faint line of dried spit from the corner of his mouth. Jaxon's skin, normally smooth and youthful, now looked blotchy and pale. He wondered how his body managed to go through such drastic changes only in the span of five or so hours. Even after Jaxon turned his face away from the mirror, no longer able to stare at himself without feeling an immense sense of self loathing, the pang in his gut refused to disappear. This was all his fault. It was him that had agreed to hang out with Rafe, it was him that had agreed to take such hardcore drugs that had damaged his body. Everything came back to Jaxon, and it made him want to hurl.

Which was exactly what he did.

Jaxon doubled over, the bile escaping his lips before he even had a chance to prevent it. Barry jumped back in horror, somehow tripping over his own two feet and falling flat on his face. Jaxon placed a trembling hand over his stomach, the nausea flowing in waves and making him feel even more horrible. He had gotten drunk many times in the past, having horrible hangovers, but nothing could ever compare to the sheer agony Jaxon felt in that moment. It was as if as thousand drills were going into his skull, thirty men punching his stomach over and over again, and that somebody had thrown him into a sauna and left him in there for hours, leaving him burning hot and vulnerable. Barry had regained himself, harshly shoving Jaxon back until he hit his mattress, his vision remaining blurred.