The Past Keeps Following Me

eleven years

I've just woken up. I don't know what time it is. I don't know what day it is. I don't know where I am. I don't know the people around me.
I don't know.
Everything is soft around the edges, and I realise slowly that this is the result of some heavy drugs. My head still hurts, I can feel it subconsciously, but the pain is momentarily numbed.
I look to my left and as my eyes focus, I see Craig perched with dazzled eyes in his wheelchair.
"Well, hello there," false friendliness soaks his voice.
"Wh..." My voiced falters. It croaks, making it even harder to get my words out on top of the drugs. "Where am I?"
"Heaven," he chuckles. Panic flashes across my face, and I realise that it was a sick joke. "Kidding, it's a mental facility."
"What-"
"-happened?" Craig finishes, stretching his arms. He scratches his head, and turns slightly to speak with one of the men in the room. Doctor, perhaps?Whatever he said must have been persuasive, because the doctor nods at the other men and they all leave the room swiftly, leaving Craig and I alone.
"You have a screw loose, mate." His voice sounds sympathetic, but his eyes are manic. He was enjoying this too much. "They're getting you locked up behind four white walls for a while."
I choke, shock waving through my body as I splutter helplessly. I try to move my hand up the shield the flying saliva, but I soon discover that they are restrained with fabric straps. My heart beat rises way too quickly.
"As-y-lum?" I cough out inbetween splutters. He nods a little too enthusiastically for my liking. He looks like the one with a screw loose, in my opinion.
He lets me think for a second, letting it sink in. I look around the room for some means of escape; no windows, no potential weapons.
"How long?" I breath hoarsely.
Craig shrugs. He really doesn't care, and he doesn't try to cover it up.
"They said that it must be a while, though. You're as nutty as Bonnie."
Something sinister sparkles behind his eyes, and my stomach lurches, threatening to push up its contents. The bright white hospital lights are making me nauseous. How long are these drugs going to last for?
"They're going to keep a constant flow of drugs in your system using that."
Dead Ross appears on the edge of my bed, along with a ghostly shadow of Bonnie who sits casually in a wooden chair on the opposite side of the bed to Craig. Both of then twitch awkwardly. It is a horrific scene, and I would be frightened if I didn't love them both dearly.
My head turns in the direction of Ross' pale finger, and I follow the tubes down, into my arms, where a duck egg blue liquid sludges into my wrists, secured with medical tape.
I don't want this. I don't want to get better. The world is an awful place.
I knew what I want.
And it only takes me a second to make a decision.
"Kill me."
"What?" Craig's eyebrows raise in shock; he wasn't expecting that.
"Let the fluid flow more fluently," I slur, sleep threatening to pull me under. I fight it; I want to be with Ross again so desperately - my Ross, not this lifeless one, slouched in front of me, that my brain had conjured up.
"Sam-"
"Do it."
Even though the drugs are affectionmy physical state, my mental state runs normal and I can think clearly.
It doesn't take long to convince Craig of my choice. He acts as if this all one big "whatever". He probably considers this as revenge for what I've done to everyone. And I deserve it.
My body runs, numbness echoing from my fingertips as the concentration of chemicals rockets and I began to spasm. Memories flash in my head; it's true what they say in the movies.
My mouth begins to foam, and I feel my life slipping away slowly. And I let it fade. I stop, and I hear my heart rate fall to a constant beep.
I silently thank Ross, Craig and Barry for making the last 11 years of my life have meaning. Goodbye, Twin Atlantic.