Bea.

Drugs and Needles

I stepped into the dark, grotty flat Bea calls her home. I hadn't seen her for five days but it had become a mess. Placing the Tesco bags down on the floor, I waded through the destruction. When no one could get hold of Bea for two days we got worried. Now I know what she was doing. Whisky bottles and cracked syringes lined the stained beige carpet, green pieces of elastic strung over chairs. 'Crap' I thought, sprinting into the bedroom. Bea lay on the grubby floor, not unlike the living rooms, a small slit in her forehead, while white powder and cigarette paper funnels decorated the chest of drawers beside her. I ran to her aid, shaking her. She's had 3 drug overdoses in the last 11 months, but this felt worse. This felt ... Different. She didn't wake up, and it took her a minute or so before she started fitting. 'At least she's alive.' The thought whirling around my head as I pinned her against the carpet. Once the fitting seized, I let go of her arms and fetched my phone from my bag. Bea's hair, her blonde locks, felt soft as they became entangled in my fingers. Once off hold, I explained to 999 what she'd taken, or at least what she'd probably taken judging by the floor. I sat with her, holding her hand and stroking her hair until they got to us. The flat was four flights up with no lift, it was going to take a while. By the time they reached us, Bea had thrown up twice before slipping back under so I put her in the recovery position, worried she would choke. They loaded her onto the board and carefully carried her down the stairs, me right behind them with her things. I knew the routine. First, a round of saline to clear the drugs from her system, she'd throw it up before they put some ibuprofen and antibiotics into her, one for pain and the other for the rusty needles. She most likely wouldn't come round till we got to the hospital, where they would check her over thoroughly just to find she was okay. But this was ... strange. There was no saline, but a ketamine solution pumped through her veins. When I asked what they were doing, why they were giving her more drugs instead of washing them away the paramedic hushed me, saying how she would be fine. But this wasn't fine. She wasn't fine. She wasn't fine when we arrived and she didn't wake up. She wasn't fine when I was told by doctors and nurses that I should stay in the relatives room. She wasn't fine when they transferred her upstairs for 'tests'. I knew what tests meant. This wasn't good. I found Andy, and begged him to explain what was happening. Andy was my brother-in-law, and was a qualified doctor at Mercy Aim. He told me about her condition, that they were keeping her sedated while they checked her head. I nodded, before thanking him and making my way up to Bea. Her room was generic. Same window in the same place, same bedside tables as the ones downstairs. Bea lay there with the usual wires coarsening through her body, but with pads on her head and ECG wires protecting her chest. I slumped in the chair next to her, holding her hand and stroking her hair. I suddenly realised I'd forgotten about James and I shot him a text, telling him that Bea was in the hospital and that I wouldn't be coming home. I was lucky he didn't have work this week, and it was going to be a long night.