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Chapter One

1.

It was all because he couldn't leave his flat. Whenever he thought about it, he got shaky, dry mouthed and sweaty at the mere thought of it. The feeling was always there. It never left his tired, aching body. It went on for months, the same feeling would always build every time he tried to leave his flat. He tried to ignore it, forced himself to go out with his friends. But every time he did, he was counting down the minutes until he could finally leave. So, he spoke to the doctor, just like he was meant to do. And so, it began. A small, white pill to get rid of his constant anxiety and fear of the unknown. Of the outside. He had it under control. He knew what he was doing. A prescription, from one of the doctors that was meant to ease the constant fear he felt day in and day out. And it came in the form of a little red bottle.

It began with just one pill a day, and it helped. Well, to begin with. He managed to haul himself out of his bed and make it to his classes, ones he had missed weeks of. He managed to see his friends for more than just a passing conversation in the hallways at university. He managed to think he was going to be okay. But then, he walked into class one day, hair shoved underneath the usual beanie he always wore, and he felt everyone's eyes on him. He felt them all watching him as he sat down and took out his laptop. He felt the judgement, the stares, the embarrassment. He felt them, even though in reality not one person had even glanced in his direction. And his whole body began to shake. He shook so hard he stumbled out of class and decided, while crouched over in a toilet cubicle, that he had simply become used to the pills he was on.

So, off he went to the doctor's again. And he was given a new prescription. But he didn't trust the doctor, he thought his body had become used to the single pill he was meant to take each morning. His constant anxiety and fear were back, and worse than ever. So, now it's not just one. It's two, three, four, five, six, tumbling out into his outstretched eager hand. He's lost count of how many he throws back into his open throat. It's a lost number, just another mere part of him lost and forgotten. All he knows is that it helps. He thinks that even if he did know the number, it wouldn't make anything better, it would just make everything so much worse than it already is.

And then, it isn't long until his constant supply from his little red bottle has run out. He needed more. He had to hunt for more. And more did he find. A friend of a friend managed to get him exactly what he wanted and needed. He's found that these pills help him fill he numbness that's now a part of his body every single second of every single day. It's now not just a small white pill used to cover his anxiety and general unhappiness. It's now something to help the constant shaking that has somehow destroyed his young, fragile bones.

That shaking that he constantly feels never seems to leave his tired body. He guesses that he's grown up with it, that it's always been part of him, and it's always going to be there. Something else he has to get used too. It feels like burning, getting hotter and hotter day after day, until it will finally explode into fragments of dust. Until he will finally explode into mere fragments of dust. And there won't be anything left of him. Nothing. But now, he doesn't care if there's nothing left. He doesn't think there's much left of him now. No future means no more pain, and to him that sounds ideal.

He's alone. No one to bother him and tell him what he should do or feel. He somehow enjoys keeping himself and his secrets hidden away, deep inside where no one can find them. And the pills help him hide them. They help him forget. But when he runs out of his little pills, he remembers. And with the remembering, comes the pain that he so rightfully wants to get away from. He goes through constant highs and then constants lows. Never in either for very long. And he doesn't know which is worse. Feeling so alive he wants to run the length of London, barely pausing for breath. And then feeling so down that he wants to lie in the darkest corner of his flat and never move again. At right now, he feels as though its constantly raining, like the sun will never shine for him again. He wonders if this is his life now. He can't remember the last time he smiled, laughed or joked. Yet, as much as he hates to admit it, he likes the feeling of the world constantly raining on him. It's easier that way. He has no one else to blame but himself. No one to disappoint but himself. He guesses he likes the silence. With silence, comes peace. Something that he longs for.

The days are long enough when he's lying in bed willing himself to move. But he can't. All he seems to be able to do these days is stare into the darkness, looking at nothing and thinking about nothing. But it's the nights he hates the most. The darkness washes over him in a hurry, and then never seems to leave. The nights stretch on, until he wonders if it'll ever be daylight again. It's the same darkness that came and never left his tired, aching body. He's empty. The only thing filling the numbness comes in the form of a little red bottle. That's become his best friend, his only friend. It's the only thing he cares about these days. It swallows him up, until the numb feeling is there, and he feels relaxed. And he likes that.

He's wronged so much of his life, and he's only a mere 21-year-old. His friends long gone, family shut out. Those friends he had once had did try. They knocked at his door, they called him, messaged him. But he never responded. He didn't know how to. So, they stopped after a while. Now, only the occasional message is sent. It's not that he decided that he no longer needed them, those pills decided he no longer needed them. He feels like nothing but an insignificant pebble, caught up in the tide. Being pushed along, no control. But he prefers this to the pain he feels day by day by day. He sometimes wonders if he'll be normal again. If he'll be able to live without the pills. But then again, he doesn't think he can bare to find out. He soon comes to the realisation that he'll never be the same again.

He finds him himself sleeping more and more and more. His reality isn't worth staying awake for. Closing his eyes will bring him to his dark paradise. A place he wishes he could escape, but has grown so accustomed to it, he can't get out. He doesn't want to get out.
Because what else has he got to live for? Nothing can help fix him. And he's not sure he really cares. He just wishes the demons would leave him alone for one night. He just wants sleep. He just needs sleep. His nightmares never seem to leave him, he feels as though his life has become a living nightmare. And he can't seem to get out of it. On one hand he thinks he deserves this and the pain that he feels and that comes with living. He's let this happen by swallowing those pills day after day. But he still isn't doing anything about it. He's simply given up. He thinks he's too young, he's too young to of let the world break him already.

But the world has broken him. Badly. He no longer wants to be a part of this world he once called home. He's now alone in this world that he now didn't know anything about. The constant gnawing in his mind and aching bones has left him little to desire for. So, he sleeps, because by sleeping it blocks out all the terror and nightmares that surround him and leave him weak and helpless in this world that he's fallen out of. He knows he's alone and he knows that all he has to do is pick up the phone and make that call. But something is stopping him. And he knows it's the fear of what will happen when he doesn't have his safety of his little red bottle to fall back on. He feels himself slipping further and further into this fragile, weak state and he doesn't know how to get out of it without leaving his pills behind. So, he doesn't care. He doesn't want to get better. Not one bit really. Why bother getting up in the morning just to face the same demons and nightmares he's already faced? That's the moment that he finds himself questioning if life is really all that it seems to be.

Like before, the little red bottle that was once so full, is empty again. He had thought that it would never end. He was wrong. So, so wrong. Soon it was empty, much faster than what the doctors had anticipated, and he knew he couldn't go back and ask for more. And the pills bought from the other lonely boy on the street corner are gone too. He's yet again in search for something new, something that would help him ease the pain. Something to give him that sweet, blissful relief he needed and wanted. His small collection began to grow. Grow and grow and grow, more than ever before. He had found a new supply, better than before. What once was a small white pill, became grey pills too, then yellow, blue; big, small, fat and slim. Anything that he could get his hands on. Anything that they promised would help the constant numbness he was feeling every day.