"C'mon, Damien, honey. Y'remember how much they helped last time?" mom sits on the edge of the bed with me. I'm just sitting there staring at the pill next to the plastic cup of water on the bedside cabinet. I don't really remember them helping, to be honest. I spent the first two weeks being psychotic - hence why Campbell wants me to stay in hospital for the first couple of weeks this time around - and then I was like a zombie. It wasn't that I was less depressed, I was just too sedated to do much about it.
"I don't wanna take it, mom. They didn't help last time, they won't help me this time." She looks like she's either upset by that, or doesn't want to accept that.
"Just try it. Please." I shake my head. I'd rather just have the methadone and be done with it. She rubs my back and I look at the floor, feeling like a shitty son. "It's okay, love," she slides her arm around my shoulders and I don't resist as she pulls me towards her for a hug. She smells of lemon flavoured cleaning products and baking. She must've been making cakes when Campbell called her. This doesn't make me feel any better about anything.
Makes me want cake though.
"Promise to bring me some cake later?" I mumble. She smiles weakly and nods. I hesitate a moment and sit up, trying not to think as I throw back the pill and lie back, waiting for the sickening rush like a bad ecstasy pill.