Coming Home

Chapter 7

She left the house swiftly, a cold smile resting on her lips. She had stayed, looking through the window to see Merlin's reaction. His confusion and panic was humorous. The steps were falling into place. It would be even easier to kill him as he no longer used magic. She wondered why, but it wasn't important. It just made her plan easier.

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Sighing, I put the book back onto the cart. We really needed to get larger carts, or at least ones with wider shelves. Arthur had landed the job at the gym as a personal trainer and while I was happy for him, it was another step towards independence. He didn't need me. He was fine. He had a job, was learning how to navigate this "crazy messed up world" (to which I could only agree), and was now meeting new people who could help him better than I could.

The shop would be closing soon and I would have to go grab Arthur from the gym. He said he wanted to talk. I was not looking forwards to it.

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Arthur was waiting outside as I walked over to the gym. We greeted each other and began walking home.

"Merlin, you have to tell me what's going on. I can't help you unless you let me," Arthur began. I knew that he was worried but honestly, it wasn't something he could help me with.

I was silent.

"Merlin, I want to help you. I really do. It hurts me to see you like this." Damn, Arthur. Really?

"I'm sorry I haven't been the best friend to you. I'm sorry that I've been too distracted to help you properly."

"It's not your fault," I mumbled.

"I know," damn it. I hoped he hadn't heard, "but you're my friend, and I care for you. Please, Merlin, you have to stop. Please. Talk to me Merlin." Arthur was begging (wow, Arthur begging?) and tears began forming at the corners of my eyes. We continued in silence for a little while. Arthur's hand had found its way to my back once more and was rubbing circles into it as we climbed the steps to the house.

"Merlin, go sit down," his voice was soft but commanding. "I'm gonna go search your room again." I didn't put up a fight.

Arthur came out again a few minutes with a few more knives I had "borrowed" from the kitchen, the gun, the bullet, and two bags of pills and white powder.

"Merlin, what is this?" Shit.

"Nothing important."

"So you wouldn't care if I did this?" He ran to the bathroom and dumped the contents of the bags into the bathroom. I jumped up and sprinted after him. Just a little bit too late.

"Damn it, Arthur! Why would you do that?" My anxiety spiked as he flushed the toilet.

"You said it wasn't important," he said innocently.

"That doesn't mean you flush it down the damn toilet!" How could he?

"You wouldn't react this way if you didn't care about it."

"Do you know what you've done?!" I shouted. "Do you realize what you've condemned me to?" He shook his head.

"A week of pain, and anxiety, and shaking, and nausea, and aches, and hallucinations! A week I'm going to have to take off from work!"

"What is that?" Arthur asked, concern flitting across his face.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Make me," was his retort.

"They're drugs," was all I could say.

"Why, Merlin?" he asked.

"I was alone for thousands of years. At first, the only form of relief I had was through pain. Until a few decades ago, drugs like these weren't common. I took any opportunity I could to forget my memories and feel happy again." Arthur was quiet now, sorrow and worry written across his face.

"Merlin, it's going to be hard, but you can't do this anymore."

"I know, Arthur. But what else am I supposed to do? I have a job I need to go to and I had other things to worry about."

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The following week was utter hell. I could barely get out of bed, I was shaking, nauseous, anxious. I needed drugs. I needed to feel normal. When I finally did drag myself out of bed and to the toilet, I promptly threw up. I knew it was late. At least noon. Standing, or attempting to, I made my way to the phone.

"Don't bother." Arthur's voice startled me. He was standing in the kitchen making cereal? "I already called the shop and gym saying that we'd be out for at least this week." I groaned.

"Just go sit down," he said, "I'm making breakfast."

"But it's noon."

"Well, this is the only thing I can make that won't burn the house down." I crawled over to the couch, my arms and legs extremely sore at this point.

Arthur walked over to the couch and put the bowl of cereal on the coffee table.

"Arthur," I pleaded, "please. Why did you do this? Why did you make me go through this?" I was crying, sobbing. What was wrong with me?

Arthur said nothing and just sat there next to me, awkwardly rubbing my back.

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This went on for a week before things finally began to feel better. I still felt like shit, but like better shit than the past week. I was shuffling around the house absolutely miserable.

Arthur had to lock up the knives.

But things began to get better and soon Arthur was walking with me around the house and to the bookstore. He didn't quite trust me enough to leave me alone, which was understandable, but it meant I couldn't go to my apartment. I had showed it to Arthur because he wanted to know if there was anywhere else he could store some extra stuff (how he had gotten more things to store was beyond me), but I was pretty sure he had cleared it out.

Months passed and there was no sign of Morgana.

AN: Hello. Sorry, the school I'm in is getting stricter about device rules so I can't update this story at school like I normally would. I am still working on it though so don't you worry about that. Thanks for all the amazing support!

Also, this portrayal of drug withdrawal is less than accurate despite my research. It's not something I can write super accurately as I've never gone through it myself.