Finding the Pure Note

What I'm Worth is Bound by Blood

It's really weird, unsettling even not to have Fletcher here. I should have been selfish; I should have told him to skip school for me. It's what I'm good for: lies and more lies.

What follows is an uneventful morning, poking at my measly breakfast before pushing the tray away. Maybe it does taste halfway decent, but the sight brings storm clouds to my stomach, an ominous rumbling that promises that anything going in, will just come hurtling back out not two seconds later.

Lunch comes and goes, the nurse narrowing her eyes in concern as she retrieves my untouched meal, but she can tell from one look that I'm not going to have this argument now. When she leaves, I lie still, trying to focus on the rise and fall of my chest. I clear my mind, summoning all the strength I can. I know I need to see dad.

Removing myself from the I.V., I take a few deeps breaths and force myself up. There's this incredible rush of vertigo, and nausea threatens to send whatever meagre scraps of food left in my stomach out. I have to grip the bedside table, and for what feels like an hour, I struggle to keep myself conscious. I don't think I've ever been as scared of death as I was in that moment.

Eventually, it does pass, and I take the next step, lifting myself up. A lurch in my stomach, but I handle it a bit better. It's only as I take a step forward that I know something's horribly wrong. I don't get why I can't even do something as simple as walk. I just took some manky drug; it's not like I was hit by a car. But I know what Chels would say. It wasn't just this one thing. I was addicted and despicable long before that night at the party. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Grimacing, I carry my leg through the next bout of pain and set down my foot, wondering if I should just give up now and lie down.

No, that's the old Clay. The quitter. I can do better. For dad.

The next few steps are considerably less excruciating, and then it's as if nothing was ever wrong in the first place. I make it out of my room and into the hallway with no further complaint from my body. Checking for any nurses, I dash to the elevator, slipping in and pressing the button, only feeling relieved as the doors close and I begin to descend.

Resting my back against the cool metal wall, I sigh and take a few deep breaths. 'Kay, I'm doing this. I'm going to see dad. I'm going to—

The doors open and I'm confronted with the sight of a balding doctor with thick-rimmed glasses. Even worse, I know the guy. My doctor. Doctor Sanderson.

He only studies me for two seconds before stepping in, gripping my arm tight in case I have any smart ideas about running.

"Mr. Hudson. You shouldn't be out of your bed," he scolds. "I know it's stifling and you are bursting to be out with your buddies, but these things require patience."

I swallow before nodding. He obviously feels pity for me and he gives me a sympathetic smile.

"Worry not, the drug is mostly out of your system." Mostly? Then what was that dance with death before? "You'll probably be all good to go in forty-eight hours."

"Two days!" I groan, the ding of the elevator reaching my floor undercutting my misery. He escorts me down the hallway in a kind of walk of shame, two nurses glancing at me oddly.

"You're remarkably lucky," he tuts. "If not for your friend, the damage might have been more permanent. Whatever you had was atrociously toxic." He grimaces, spitting out his next words like they burn his tongue. "Vile stuff."

"I know, I was an idiot. It won't happen again."

"Good, lad. I expect not. You've learnt your lesson. I dare say there'll be more nausea and vomiting. You might shake, and the headaches will come in and out infrequently. Your body is fighting to flush out the toxins and you'll be very weak during this period."