Dead or Destitute (Lams)

Chapter Four

A/N Hey guys, sorry if this chapter is kind of bland. I'm just down on motivation and already off to a shitty week. In other news, I started listening to Heathers. J.D is honestly my favorite character. Those of you who have listened to it, who do you like?

Some would describe the feeling as numb. It would be a proper adjective to use in this instance. John preferred cold. There was a shiver in his spine, a chill which refused to abandon him.

Words rushed together, nothing sounding coherent. His eyes refused to focus, his hands refusing to steady. Although he had broken into a cold sweat, he was freezing.

His father's visit was short, all insults and threats. There were promises too, all of which made John regret the last attempt. If only it had worked, then he wouldn't be suffering now. At least if he had died, he never would have met Alexander, never have to know that he was dying.

The final release was all he yearned for now, all he could fantasize about. Death was silent and peaceful. Death was a release. Dying was easy.

Living, now that was so much more difficult, practically impossible.

Words from John's father rang through his head all afternoon. He could still picture Henry Laurens in the hospital room. He looked unnaturally uncomfortable, something that was odd from such a man. He usually stood tall and proud, carrying a certain air which now diminished in the chilled room as the bright fluorescent lights glared down on him.

His suit was new, the red tie hanging limply around his neck. John thought it resembled a noose, though he'd never admit to that out loud.

His father's voice lost its mannerism as he spoke to John. Usually he sounded eloquent and commanding. Now as they were alone, the facade, the barrier fled. He hissed at John, his words clear, concise, but not that of a businessman.

It was the voice of a madman.

Henry Laurens had said a lot of things that day.  He whined on about what to tell the people at his firm.

"Jacky," he would begin. "How on God's green earth am I gonna explain this shit?"

He ran his hands nervously through his hair, sighing deeply as he did so. "What would your mother think about all this?"

John would then wonder what his mother would say to his father's behavior. What would his sweet mother, the one whose eyes glistened every time she spoke, what would she say to Henry Laurens and the way he treated her son?

Surely she would have cried out by now if she had been alive. She would have demanded that the hits stop, that the words calm to something nice. She would have left Henry if she had to, anything to care for her children.

However, Eleanor Laurens was long since dead. Eleanor Laurens couldn't protect her children from the grave.

John could see his mother's disapproval in his head, but he never once stopped to consider if she was right. He didn't contemplate whether the deeds of his father were right. He refused to justify it. He simply met each act of abuse as if he deserved it, and in his mind, he did.

Henry's back was arched, a bead of perspiration dropping down from his forehead. His hands were clasped tightly together, supporting his head. "Oh, Jacky boy," he'd occasionally begin, caught in his thoughts, wondering how to address the problem at hand. He was trying ever so hard to be diplomatic here.

John quivered every time his father spoke. In that moment, he was more horrified of his words than the pain he could possibly inflict.

"I'll strike you a deal," he finally announced, gathering his things and rising to speak. His posture steadied, his attitude at ease. John felt as though he was making a deal with the devil, and as far as anyone knew, he was.

"Finish what you started. I'd rather explain a tragedy than an utter disappointment," he spat out the word disappointment, pointing the word out in such a manner that John knew exactly everything he was referring to.

With that, Henry Laurens left.

It shouldn't have taken this long for John to contemplate the thoughts. He should be dead by now. He had been in that shit hole long enough to know where to get strong drugs. He just needed something that would certainly do the job.

That day, he decided to save up all the anti depressants brought to him. He asked for pain killer frequently. By the end of the week, he had quite the pretty stack of drugs; pain killers, anti-depressants, a pill here or there which he had stolen from other rooms.

He had decided not to leave behind a note. Notes consumed too much time. He had spent hours writing notes for a failed cause, a string of crumpled letters waiting for him. No one read them. No one needed to.

A letter was a last goodbye and in this instance, John didn't have anyone to say goodbye to.

He had no problem taking each and every oddly shaped capsule. He downed them like he had found the key to happiness, something that would finally sustain him.

His gut hurt, his eyes watered uncontrollably. He had lost track of how long the medicine had been in his system. It didn't feel like long. He began to shake uncontrollably, perhaps a seizure, or maybe his body was just trying to vomit. He couldn't tell. He didn't want to.

He heard the machine hum change into a rapid beat. It was loud, his heart rate sky rocketing. Nurses and doctors rushed in, too many to count. He was sure that this many people shouldn't be forced in such a tiny room. He felt short of breath, and he was grateful for it. His lungs screamed that this wasn't healthy. His brain said very differently.

"Mr Laurens, stay with us!" the doctor called but John was already sinking into oblivion. His eyes fluttered shut, blocking out the view of people helping him. Panic shot through him as he imagined the doctor's attempts of healing working.

Instead, he tried to forget anyone was there. He sank into his mind, becoming a recluse to anything but his thoughts. Soon he wasn't aware anyone was there.

Perhaps, just maybe, he was eternally asleep.