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Chapter Three

3.

So now he sits at his lonely old kitchen table. His mum slept on the old, used sofa last night, his sister went back to her flat across the other side of the city. Sleep is a loose term for his mum. She kept creeping through at all hours of the night to make sure he was still alive, still breathing, still there. He was there, of course he was, but he wasn't really there. The pills wore off and he lay in the darkness, wondering when it would swallow him whole. There was no hiding now. He had been found. There was brief mention of calling his estranged dad, but that was one argument he had manged to win. It seemed it was the only one he was going to win in this round. His mum and sister had already made up their mind on a lot of things to do with his life. So, it was agreed, his dad would be called at a later date. When things were settled. If they ever got settled. 

After his sister left, he began to cry. He cried and begged to be left in the flat alone. He promised to get his life back on track, that all he needed was a few pills to get him through the next couple of days and he would be okay. Everything would work out and he would be okay. That worse he kept repeating and repeating until he was hoarse: okay. But his mum didn't believe him, with a simple shake of her head that was it. It was hopeless. He felt like a child again. Doing what he was told, doing what mum says. He was hopeless. He had thought about running away, creeping out of the flat and beginning his life over again. Find someone to give him pills and then he would be okay. And he had tried, but his legs wouldn't work. He had managed to swing them out of his cold bed and that was as far as he could manage. And he didn't have enough money to survive. Barely enough for his next hit of pills. And that was all he cared about. Getting those pills. His stash he had just bought were gone. Flushed down the toilet. At the time he couldn't even argue, he was too out of it. The ones he tried to hold onto were forced out his hands and flushed away too. He didn't have any left. They were all gone. Just like him. Mere memories of the boy he used to be.

He stays slumped over the table, the tea and toast untouched before him. Cold and stale, just like him and his life now. There are mutters and begs of "eat, please" but he can't. He doesn't know how to eat. He doesn't even know where the tea and toast has appeared from. Maybe something he bought in one of his highs. But he doesn't think he would be that organised. He manages to look to his mum who's busying herself by cleaning the cooker which hasn't been touched in months. He sees a pile of empty beer cans and stubbed out cigarettes. He doesn't even like smoking. It was just something to do until the pills kicked in. Or if he had run out of pills and needed something else to take the edge off. At least that was one thing he wasn't addicted too: smoking. That was just something he did for a reason he isn't sure. Probably just something to do to hurry up the long days. He thought about getting up, walking out the flat and leaving his mum behind. But he couldn't do it. Something was stopping his legs each time he decided enough was enough. 

So, he stayed slumped over the chair, trying to remember if he had hidden any pills that hadn't been checked yet. He wished he had been more careful. Maybe if he had, none of this would have happened.

His sister appears a little while later and he's still sitting in the chair, tea and toast untouched in front of him. She glances at him and then sits down opposite him. He doesn't even move. He's just a shell of the person he used to be. He wonders if they can see it too. How broken he is. How much he wants to die. The realisation that he is still here, still alive and still breathing is slowly beginning to sink in. He's tired, not having the usual pills to keep him awake and numb. The silence and darkness last night all came too much for him. It was the same bed, same room, same everything. Apart from this time, he didn't have his friends from his little red bottle to keep him company. He's empty now, no pills for 14 hours. He doesn't know how to cope. How can emptiness feel so heavy? He's a sea of emotion, and he doesn't want to be. He wants to be numb and heavy and alone. He just wants to be alone. But that isn't going to happen. His mum is already planning, she's begun to tell his sister about what's going to happen. He doesn't listen, he doesn't want too. He doesn't care what happens to himself anymore, he doesn't care for life anymore.