Page 51 of Taste of Addiction

“Hey, Larry, this is Angie McFee. I am so sorry but I need to call off today for my work shift. I am feeling a bit under the weather and just need a day off to rest.”

“Sure, no problem. Hope to see you tomorrow.”

I end the call and then start up the engine. I back out of the parking spot. My vision is blurry from the headache pain behind my eyes that keeps building. I keep one hand on the steering wheel and one on the bridge of my nose. If I can just get home and rest my eyes, I will hopefully feel a little better.

It is a short trip back to the townhouse. I cut the engine and walk up the stairs, then unlock the door and reset the alarm system. I need to get out of these stupid dress clothes. What good did looking professional do anyway?

When I get to my room, I start discarding clothes, tossing them on an armchair in the corner of the room. I will hang them back up later. In my closet, I find a simple pair of leggings and sweater to put on. My head throbs so I try to remember where I put the pills that Owen gave me. Maybe one of those, combined with the two Bryce let me have, will fix this pulsing in my head for a few hours. I need a break from it.

I try my nightstand. Nothing.

Maybe they are in the bathroom. I’m not usually this forgetful. I think the stress of the past couple of weeks has been wearing down my brain. I push open the bathroom door and nearly scream at Graham sitting on the closed toilet seat, looking like he is about to go to war.

“Whoa, what are you doing here?” I ask in a hurry. “Did you just let yourself inside? What’s going on?”

“How long have you been using?”

“What?” I ask, staring at all of the bottles on the counter. There’s not many and most are OTC.

“You heard me, dammit!” I see the panic in his eyes and he wrenches open the medicine cabinet and rummages through the hygiene supplies, trying to find more proof to add to his growing stash. I swing my hands up and try to stop him but he has already convinced himself.

He pushes past me and stomps into the bedroom. He finds my school bag and starts throwing things out of it into a pile on the bed.

“Stop!” I say, grabbing his forearm from behind. “What are you doing?”

I hear the rattling before I see what he has retrieved. “These are narcotics! Opioids!” he bellows, holding the container in front of my face. He shakes it and reads the label out loud, like I am a child. “That’s assuming what’s inside is actually what the label says!”

“I’ve told you I’ve been getting headaches, Graham.” I try to keep my voice even-toned. He is spitting rage.

“T-3s with Codeine, Angela. Do you know how dangerous these are? And Lorazepam? For fuck’s sake, what the hell have you been doing?” I hear his disgusted sigh, and I quickly go into defense mode.

“I don’t even know what Lorazepam is.” It’s the truth. I really don’t. “What are you talking about?”

“Lorazepam is a benzodiazepine.”

“Oh, that explains everything,” I huff. I look up at him with hatred. Why is he doing this to me right now?

“It is an anxiety medication that can cause drowsiness, weakness, dry mouth, nausea, changes in appetite, blurred vision. But the problem with this type of medication is that it is highly addictive.”

“Where did you even find it, Graham? Is it even mine?"

“I found little rolled up foil balls with pills inside in your drawers, hidden in the back corners, Angie. Pretty sure they are yours.”

Shit. I didn’t even notice them or I would have used them when I was desperate to relieve the pain. I often used foil to protect them and could easily pocket one when I needed to have backup when I would go out. It’s so easy for those that aren't living with agonizing pain to cast judgment. He just doesn't get it.

“Pretty sure you have violated so much of my privacy that there’s no coming back from this. That’s the bigger issue here, Graham, isn’t it?”

His eyes twitch as he watches me stomp around my room. I am pacing and about to explode on him with an angered rage. Damn him.

“What about the T-3s? Who prescribed those to you?”

“You know that I was in a car accident, Graham. Why are you making such a big deal out of all of this?”

“The accident was five years ago.”

“I have lingering injuries.”

“What did you eat today?” he demands, pushing hair back from his sweaty forehead.

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