Deception (Michael Clifford)

Twenty Four

Ashton comes bursting threw the door. I whip around, phone in my hand, and freeze.

"What's going on?"
I barely register his question. My mind is panicked.
I watch as his silhouette rushes over to where Michael lays on the couch, convulsing and unresponsive.
Ashton drops his bags on the floor.
"Michael? Michael can you hear me."
He gently taps his friends face but doesn't get a response.
I watch as if I'm in a dream, unable to move or respond.
"He's in shock." Ashton says steely, placing his palm to Michael's forehead.
I blink. Michael's leg trembles next to me. My gaze slowly moves up to his face, which is pinched in pain, the muscles in the side of his face twitch, and to my surprise, his eyes are wide open.
Ashton moves methodically. Reaching down into one of the paper bags he brought in, and lifting out a pocket size bottle of Jack Daniels.
I watch in confusion, my mind suddenly kick starting me into action.
"What is that!"
Ashton ignores my question, and instead proceeds to open the bottle, and lift the rim to Michael's mouth. I slap his hand away.
"What do you think your doing!?" I exclaim, the shock and anger evident in my voice.
He looks at me seriously.
"You have to trust me."
I cut him off. "I thought you went to get a doctor! He's having a seizure and your trying to give him alcohol!"
"He's been like this before, not for a long time, but he has." He explains quickly, I'm about to protest but he continues. "He's been missing for over a day with no cash, which means he hasn't had a drink in well over 24 hours. He is going through withdrawal." I listen in bewilderment. "If he doesn't get any alcohol into his system soon, he's going to have a heart attack."
I fall silent, numb with shock.
Withdrawal.
I look at Michael, writhing on the couch. The temperature, the dizziness, the irritability... all signs of withdrawal. He's an alcoholic?

Ashton, seemingly noting my submission, leans back over with the bottle of Jacks, and tries to hold Michael still as he pours the liquor. I reach over and help, placing one hand on his chin, the other on his forehead, his skin hot beneath my hands.
On the first attempt, Michael doesn't respond, and the Jacks spills out the corner of his mouth. The strong scent of the whiskey hits my nose as Ashton tips the bottle a little more, now fully pressing it to his lips.
That's when the reflex kicks in.
I see his throat move as he slowly swallows the liquid. Ashton tips it a little more, and before I know it the bottle is empty. He opens another.
Michael's trembling has reduced, but he's still not responding. I look up to his eyes, and see them fading a little. Ashton tilts the second bottle to get out the last few drops, then places it to the side.

We watch in silence.

It takes no more than a few minutes before the alcohol in his blood stream begins to take affect, and the trembling ceases. His skin is still slick from his high temperature, but his breathing has returned to normal.
The events of the last few minutes begin to settle in my mind.
It all happened so quickly. One minute he was sat calmly, and we were just talking, then his head falls back.
Alcohol withdrawal. I should have seen it.
But Ashton knew. That's why he went out. He couldn't find any liquor in here. He knew that's what Michael needed.
I look at him out the corner of my eye. Staring at his friend distantly. I know there is something the band isn't sharing, but is that it? There's got to be more to it than that.

I turn my gaze back to the boy on the couch as Ashton gets to his feet.
"We should move him to the bed, he'll be out for a while." He says quietly. I keep my gaze on Michael, sleeping so peacefully now, compared to what he looked like only minutes ago. Pity for him wells up in my stomach. No one should ever have to reach a point like this.
I take the cue and get to my feet also, helping Ashton as he tries to lift the boy off the couch. We each wrap an arm around his back, supporting the dead weight, and shuffle him towards the bedroom on the far side. He's still very warm, but he's no longer shaking, which I take as a good sign. We push open the bedroom door and move him towards the bed. I shiver as his warm, liquor tainted breath tickles my ear.
Then place him down on the bed.
His fringe falls over his eyes, which harbour deep purple bags. And the scratches across his skin reveal what a tough night he has had.
I feel an instant pang of sympathy. Something is going on with this boy. I don't know what, but something is telling me it's been going on for a while.
Ashton grabs his legs and rotates him around so that he is facing the right way, then takes off his boots. Although he still doesn't look comfortable. His arm juts out at an awkward angle.
Tenderly, I take the opportunity to reach down and push it closer to his side, then gently brush the fringe out of his eyes.
It's a quaint gesture, I realise, one that maybe wasn't needed. But it felt right either way.
I follow Ashton back out of the room, leaving Michael to sleep off his ordeal in peace.