Jamie didn't know what to do. He felt cold, like something inside of him had snapped and died. He didn't look back as he walked away from Lilly. If she didn't want to go to a hospital, that was fine with him. She wasn't his responsibility, after all. That had been Sam. Sam had been your responsibility, a voice in the back of his head whispered, and look how you screwed that one up.
Gritting his teeth, he ignored the nagging voice and just walked. He turned the corner to his house and stalked up to his door, fumbling with the keys and cursing. Finally getting the door open, he slammed it shut, leaning back on it and letting out a small sigh of relief. Being home without Sam there wasn't great, but it suddenly felt a hell of a lot safer than outside.
The familiar smell of singed toast and protein shakes greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and looked inside, not especially hungry, more looking for something to do. Bumper value cartons of milk sat inside, taking up half of the fridge. He sighed, knowing he would never drink so much milk on his own. Wasted and thrown away, just like Sam, he thought, pulling one of the cartons out.
Giving it a quick sniff to see if it was still drinkable, he pulled a glass out of the cupboard and made himself a protein shake before going upstairs to Sam's room. He sat on the edge of his bed drinking the shake as he looked at the set of weights in the corner of the room. Gulping the shake down quickly, he burped and set the glass down on Sam's bedside table where it joined three other glasses that still needed to be washed.
He got up and moved over to the weights. Figuring a work out would tire him out enough to sleep and give him something to do, he laid down and picked up the first weight, trying to ignore the posters of bikini models and porn stars that Sam had stuck up on the ceiling.
By the time he was finished with the weights, his muscles were burning and his hands were becoming slick with sweat. He dropped the barbell back in its place on the rack and pushed himself up.
He still wasn't tired enough. His body was weary, but his mind was buzzing. The death of what had been left of his conscience had only served to make his mind louder. The scent of fresh sweat filled his senses, but it had triggered a memory of the bloodbox match he had seen only the other day; the blood, the tears, the fear and the tangible tension in the air around him. They swarmed in his mind and threatened to take over.
Even after a quick shower, he was still more awake than he wished to be. A muscle jumped in his reflection's jaw as he stared at himself in the mirror. His hair dripped into his eyes. He would have pushed it back, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see the emptiness in his expression.
Instead, he opened the cabinet, replacing his reflection with spare toothbrushes and pills. They may have been meant for his mother, but a sleeping pill was a sleeping pill. He swallowed them dry and shuffled back to his bedroom, attempting to change before they took effect. He fell asleep sprawled across the top of his duvet, his towel only half covering him.
How could a man be ruined so completely?
The bloodbox was to blame, he knew, and even as he slumped backwards onto his bed, he realised the bloodbox and the man behind it had to be stopped.