Ode to Remedy

Act IX

Valentine ripped his hands away from his jaw before he would uncontrollably apply more pressure to his face and spun around to face the remainder of the room. The first thing he noticed was his old high school letterman that was absent from its place hanging on the doorknob. Val stared, the torriential sorrow in his chest suddenly ignited with anger. How could Markus have the audacity to take his jacket and run off to wherever the hell he went?

A small thought in the back of his mind carried the little hope he had left. Could Markus have gone to give Valentine some space? What if he returned in the morning, only to surprise Val with a bouquet of plum blossoms, Val's favorite flower? He began to weep again. Only Markus would know that fact about him. He still had the right to be mad. Markus ran off after an argument, without a trace of apologetic tendencies, without a single intention to tell Val of where he went, even if he was off to get Val a present in an attempt to atone. He only hoped that the small, dubious thought was the case.

He forced himself to stand, but his knees buckled beneath him. Through struggled gasps, he staggered to the bathroom and fell upon the sink. He absolutely hated when he got like this. The blood in his veins seemed to scald his insides as his temperature began to rise drastically. Val frantically unbuttoned his waistcoat with shaky fingers and threw it on the floor. His breaths began to rise again as the panic inside him threatened to spill with every passing second. He fell to the floor onto his knees and swung open the cabinet door, shoving things aside. His frantic eyes scanned the barely readable label to every pill bottle that rattled and toppled onto the floor. Where was his medicine? He didn't like that he had to use it, he liked to believe his panic attacks were getting less and less frequent due to Markus's loving aid, and so it had been a long time since he had taken his pills. But there was no Markus. The only restrictions that kept him from tipping permanently had been cut, and now he had to manage to calm himself while he still had a slight sense of cognizance left. He let out a quick sigh when he spotted his familiar bottle of antidepressants and quickly hurried to the kitchen with not a single intention to clean the mess he had just created.

Val tripped on his way and collapsed into the countertop, but he heaved himself up again, ignoring the pain that now rang in his shaky bones. He rushed to the sink and popped open the bottle lid, pouring the small, white contaminants into his palm. How many was he holding? Six? He squinted, but his vision didn't seem to want to comprehend the number. Everything was blurry to him. Did he happen to hit his head and forgot? Were six pills dangerous? Refusing to hesitate any longer before he drew himself mad, he poured the handfill into his mouth and leant under the sink, with each one he downed they became more difficult to swallow. Val poured water down his throat in attempt to make the process faster, but he only began to sputter and choke. He doubled over and grasped the edge of the sink in an attempt to maintain his balance, gasping for air. Once he regained oxygen through incorrect breathing patterns, he forced himself to straighten. He reached over and turned the water off, for it was the only reasonable thing he could think of to do.

Valentine stared at the sink, then at the floor, and raised his own hands to his cheeks. He buried his face into his palms, only to come in contact with wet skin. He realized tears had begun to run down his face again during his coughing fit, and slowly intertwined his own fingers as if he were to pray. He probably should have in that moment, prayed for help, prayed for some sane thoughts to enter his mind, because the pain that crept up his spine and spilled into his head began to pollute his notions. Fear reached up and held his sore, heavy heart firmly. Was Valentine going to die?

He wasn't even aware of how many pills he swallowed. He could only stare at the bottle in horror, which was now spilt across the counter, its small containments scattered. What would happen if Markus returned home, only to walk across Valentine's corpse? He squeezed his eyes shut, only causing more tears to trickle down his chin, and desperately tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind, but he couldn't. He couldn't even recall what time it was, it was two-something when he came home. He only wished that it was almost morning, and wherever Markus was would hurry back to open his arms to Val. But, what if Markus didn't return home at all?

He sank to his knees onto the tiled floor and pressed his face deeper into clenched hands. He sat there, weeping for what felt like hours.

What if Markus never came back?

Valentine's heavy gaze rose to the countertop, the small, white pills seemed to sing to him in a way, taunting him to swallow more. Why? Why did it feel like that? For the remainder of the night, Valentine sat there, his hands to his face, his white shirt soaked with faucet water and tears, and not once did his eyes leave the bottle sitting atop the counter. 

How many more would it take to kill him?