Page 49 of Inevitable Destruction

DOMINIK

“My Own Prison”—Creed

I haveno sense of time or reality anymore. It all comes and goes without meaning. Days morph into nights, seconds into hours. and hours into days.

Most of the time, I have no clue who I am. I’m either so deep inside of my head, floating on a cloud of oblivion, or I’m sleeping, dead to the fucking world other than those goddamn night terrors that wake me at three every goddamn morning.

That’s when I pop another pill and fall back into the trenches of my own mind.

I like it there—it’s quiet.

There are no memories to haunt me. No guilt, or pain. No fucking love. Nothing at all.

Except I’ve run out, and my body is failing me. Just like I knew it would eventually, but that doesn’t do a goddamn thing to ease the muscle spasms or the nausea, or the fucking bone-rattling shakes, amongst the many other waves of pain crashing into me like I’m the hull of a ship in the middle of the sea during a category five hurricane.

I peel my eyelids open, fighting my way through the thick sludge threatening to keep them shut. My arms are heavy, so I rest them on my chest as I rub my eyes in deep circles, cleaning the gunk from them. When I’m able to see again, I notice the white walls surrounding me on every side.

I frown and swallow the lump lodged in my throat. My body warms uncomfortably as the walls close in around me. With a grip on the sides of the tub, I try to lift myself, but in my weakened state, I crash back into the bathtub. My head bounces against the edge, and white-hot stars dance across my vision, blurring my eyes.

I let out a weak groan and roll to my side, plastering my face to the cool porcelain, but it does nothing to ease the inferno bubbling underneath my skin. My stomach churns again, and before I can stop it, I heave and spew the empty contents of my stomach all over myself.

The smell is putrid, immediately singeing my nose hairs. I gag and retch, choking on the smell of my own stomach bile but unable to move out of the way.

Sweat covers every inch of my skin, making me shiver and my teeth chatter, even though I’m boiling from the inside out. I dig my elbow into the bottom of the tub, ignoring the liquid pooling around me, and put as much pressure on it as I can, ignoring the zaps of electrified pain radiating through my arm.

I make it three inches before I fall again, this time curling in on myself, my legs pressing into my stomach, knees against my chest. I turn my head so my lips hover just above the bottom of the tub and let the bone-chilling shivers wrack my body until it feels like the base of the tub is vibrating along with me.

I’m unaware of how much time passes, but eventually, the shivers and the cramping in my stomach recede momentarily, leaving my body exhausted in their wake. I feel so fucking heavy, like my bones have weights attached to them, keeping me pinned in place with no hopes of moving for the next few years.

I know what this feeling is—it’s withdrawal.

It’s been so long since I’ve experienced it, I almost forgot what it felt like. Only this time, I think it’s worse. But probably not, because surely, withdrawing from shoving a needle in your arm is worse than this?

I don’t fucking know shit anymore. All I do know is I need more.

I ran out of Dilaudid yesterday morning. They didn’t last anywhere near as long as I thought they would. Just like my Oxys, one turned to two real fast, except this time, I never waited to come down. I just kept taking them to stay at the same fucking level, only now I’m crashing—hard.

I make a pathetic attempt to take a deep breath, but in my position, my lungs are constricted, and I barely have enough room to breathe normally.

I know what I have to do, and while I don’t really want to, there’s no other choice. I fucking need more, and there’s only one way I can get them, and I can’t find any part of me that wants to fight it.

I just need this pain to go away.

With a new sense of determination, I push myself into a sitting position, only stopping once to dry-heave, letting out a wretched cry as my body attacks itself. Sweat beads along my forehead and trickles down my temple, splashing across my pale forearms.

I reach over the side of the bathtub and blindly feel around for my phone. I’m hoping it’s there, because if it’s not, I think I’m going to die.

Please, please…

“Fuck,” I cry out when my fingers close around my phone. I grip it like it’s my lifeline—because it is—and place it on the edge of the tub. With trembling fingers, I unlock it and hit call to the last person I want to speak to.

The rings echo through the room, loud and chilling. After four of them, there’s a click and his condescending, bitter voice sounds over the line.

“Ready for more of my cock, are you? Took you long enough,” he taunts me, smug and not necessarily wrong. I swallow down the pain and open my mouth to speak, but instead, bile shoots up my throat unexpectedly, and I retch, throwing up all over myself again. The smell mixing with my foul stomach has a vicious cycle ensuing, each action causing the other to react violently.

I’m not able to get a single word in, and Rhett’s distinguishable laugh echoes in my staticky ears.

“Oh, my beauty boy. You’re falling much faster than I anticipated. I’ll be there soon.”

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