Addicted To You .L.S.

Five.

Nine and a half months ago.
(Sixteen years old)

"You're a fucking sadist," I snarl at Marry.
It's been three days since my parents shipped me off so Marry can "straighten me out," as my dad put it. Three days since I've had any pills. The withdrawal is bad enough—like my body is one giant, throbbing bruise and spiders crawl underneath my sweaty skin—but the pain, undulled and persistent, is to much to take. With the pills, I can move without it hurting so much. Without them, my back is killing me and my legs always giving out. Every movement, even turning over in bed sends sharp flares down my spine that leave me breathless, pain-tears tracking down my face. The pain, full-forced for the first time since the accident, combined with the withdrawal is excruciating. I stop getting out of bed. It hurts to much.

It's all Marry's fault. If she'd just given me the damn pills, I'd be fine. I'd be able to move. I wouldn't hurt. I'd be okay again.  
I just want to be okay again. And Marry won't let me.

   I spend a lot of time staring at the cheerful yellow walls of her guest room, with its lace curtains and vintage travel posters. They make me want to puke. I hate everything about Marry's house. I want to go home.
   I want my pills. The thought of them consumes me, drives everything out of my head, makes me focus with a singularity I've had for only one other thing in my life. Harry would hate me for comparing him to this, but I don't care, because I kind of hate him right now, too.

"I'm helping you." Marry barely looks up from her magazine. She's sitting in a turquoise armchair across the room, her legs up on the matching stool.
"I'm . . . in . . . pain!"
"I know you are." She flips a page. "Which is why you have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Best pain management doctor around. We'll find non-narcotic options for you and Pete's got an acupuncturist friend who's going to come to the house and treat you."

The idea twists in my gut. "Your going to stick needles in me? Are you crazy?"
  "Acupuncture can be therapy."
"There's no way I'm doing that," I say firmly. "Can't I go home, please? This is so stupid. The doctors were the one who gave me the pills in the first place. I have prescriptions. Do you really think you know better than them?"

"Probably not," Marry admits. "I didn't even graduate college. But I'm in charge of you know, I get to do what I think is best. You're a drug addict. You screwed up. Now you get clean."

I groan. "I told you, I don't have a drug problem. I'm in pain. That's what happens when you get crushed by an SUV and your bones are healed together by metal and screws."
    "Blah. Blah. Blah." Marry waves it off and sets her magazine down. "I've heard it all before. Some people can handle pain meds, some can't. Considering the pharmacy your dad found in your bed room, I'm going to say you're just a few bad days away from OD. You think I'd let you do that? Put your mother and me through that? I don't think so. Not again.
  When you run out of your bullshit excuses and admit you've got a problem. We can talk.
The sooner you admit it, babe, the sooner we'll get to the root of this. You might as well start talking—you're not going anywhere until I'm sure your not a danger to yourself."

"I'm fine." I wipe the sweat off my forehead, swallowing against the constant nausea thats taken over since yesterday. God, withdrawal sucks.

Marry gets up and shoves a trash can in my hand. "If you're going to throw up, use this."

  Her face softens, a ripple in that bad-cop facade she wears to well.
She reaches over, grasping my free hand in hers, and holds on tight enough I can't tug away. "I won't give up on you, Louis. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I'm here. I won't lose you. No to this. I will get you clean. Even if you end up hating me for it."

"Great," I said bitterly. "Lucky me."