Damien: methadoneMature

"You're not." I arch my eyebrow. Are you serious? Where would I begin on the list of reasons why I'm screwed up? "Don't ever say stuff like that."

"I'm not allowed to tell the truth anymore?" I laugh.

"It's not true, though."

"Go on then. Give me one good reason I'm not screwed up." I wait for an answer, but he doesn't seem to have one. I kind of nod. "See?"

"I can't explain it." Sure, like I believe that. "I mean it."

"Yeah, sure. I'm not a fuck up because of some reason you can't explain. Whatever. I'm gonna go get my shot of methadone," I get up, fully intent on leaving him there. Apparently, he has other ideas.

"Let me come with you." I ask him why and all I get is a shrug. I sigh, walking off to find a nurse or someone that can sort out my methadone. I'm told to wait at my bed and I do, lying down on it, impatient as Kyle sits with me. Danny's bed is still empty. I have no doubt that if Danny was back, Kyle would fuck off over there without a second thought.

A nurse comes over at last and asks me to roll up my sleeve. I do so, and watch her expression as she sees my arm. A look of shock flickers across her face, but she pushes it aside, keeping up the professionalism and ties a belt around my arm. I close my eyes, ignoring the sick sensation as I wait for her to push the needle into my vein.

I let out a low moan as it goes in, pumping the methadone into my blood. I hum happily and smile as the withdrawals fade away. It's not enough to block everything out, but it'll do.

"What made you take drugs in the first place?" I open my eyes and smile up at him.

"Feels good." He frowns, but I don't really care.

I'm just lying there, all chilled out and happy, still waiting for my high. I've had methadone before. It takes a good couple of hours before I feel anything more than chilled out. I watch as someone's wheeled in on a gurney, unconscious and attached to a drip of some kind. They lift him into Danny's bed and it clicks kinda slowly that it is, in fact, Danny himself.

"Danny?" Kyle asks, going over to him. Danny, obviously, says nothing. He's unconscious, honey, d'ya really think he's gonna wake up and go all ‘HI I MISSED YOU' kiss kiss kiss? No. No, he's not. Even if he woke up, he'd be as high as I am on morphine.

Kyle looks like he's about to cry. I watch as the first tear escapes. And then another.

"Kyle, babe, standing there crying isn't gonna make him wake up." He shoots me a half hearted glare. "C'mere," I tell him. He shuffles over and I sit up, shifting over to give him some room. I pat the space next to me and he's barely sat down before my arms are around him. He keeps crying and I wipe his face with my sleeve occasionally. Doesn't seem to matter what I do, he just cries harder.

"Why won't anyone tell me what's wrong with him?"

"Dunno," I mumble. He keeps crying, and no amount of hugging will make him stop.

"I just want to know if he's gonna be okay," he sniffles.

"He'll be fine," I tell him. Least, I'm fairly sure he will be.

"What if he's not?"

I shrug, "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"You didn't throw yourself in front of a train," he says with another sniffle.

"No... I threw myself in a car instead. I'm still not dead." I'd misjudged how fast it was going and just ended up being bruised and concussed. He sniffles again and I tighten my hug a little. Both of us are silent after that, aside from the odd sniff and sob from Kyle. I reach over into the bedside cabinet and pull out my cigarettes and lighter. "C'mon, let's go for a walk." He gets up, still saying nothing and we walk outside in silence. He's still pretty much crying, but I'm more interested in lighting my cigarette and finding somewhere to sit.

"Should you be smoking?"

"Dunno. Never stopped me before," I shrug.


"You gonna sit down?" he sits and look at him. "He'll be okay, Kyle." He lets out a sniffle.

"But what if he's not?"

"Well, you don't need to think about that, ‘cause he'll be fine. Stop worrying." He tries to, but he kind of fails. I sigh inwardly and play with my lighter, putting an arm around him when he sobs. The crying starts up again.

"Why do I fuck everything up?"

"Like what?"


"Not everything, I'm sure." He doesn't say anything, too busy crying to reply. "C'mon. What've you fucked up? It's my fault Danny's here, not yours. I meant it when I said that before, y'know."

"We've split up twice since we started going out. It was my fault this time ‘cause I kissed you. What else is there for me to fuck up?"

"You coulda fucked me. That would've been worse. And it's not your fault he doesn't listen to why you kissed me, that's his." I'm not stupid. I realised why he was doing it. I just figured at the time, I might as well make it backfire on him too. I'd end up being picked on again, but so would he, and Danny would see and hate him for it. At the time, it made sense. Now I just feel kinda bad.

Wait, am I actually feeling bad about fucking over the guy who spent the last few years tormenting me every day? Fuck you, methadone. Stop making me feel so good about life.

He's silent. I don't know what to say, so I just light another cigarette. I'd offer him one, but I don't think he smokes.

"You shouldn't smoke," he mumbles.

"Why not?"

"S'not good for you." I hum. Neither is weed, or coke, or heroin. Or methadone. Or anything else that I do. I don't say that though. I don't want to argue. Arguing's no fun. 


The End

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