I guess I fell asleep watching TV with Erin. Lucas. Whatever the fuck she wants to be called. Either way, I end up back in my bed somehow, and I don't think it was by my own will. I feel like shit. That's the first thing I notice about consciousness. The methadone wore off, but the antidepressants haven't. The happy, warm, comfortable feeling of the opiates has given way to the cold, emptiness of depression again, and I just lie there with my eyes shut, though I can hear my mom sitting with me, sipping at a coffee.

Apparently my consciousness is more obvious to her than it should be.

"Damien? Are you awake, honey?" I ignore her, hoping she'll stop talking and go away. She reaches over, and I'm acutely aware of her fingers brushing back the hair that's fallen over my eyes. "I miss you, honey," she whispers. There's like this tugging sensation in my guts that makes me feel even more shitty and horrible than I already did. "But you have to get better," she continues, "you have to get better, don't you honey? I don't want you to feel like you have to... have to do all the stuff you do anymore." I hear her sniff a little, like she's trying to hold back some tears or something, or maybe like she's already crying and I just can't see that. "I just wish you didn't have to be here to get better. The house is so quiet without you downstairs in the garage playing music, or even shouting at me," I hear a little sob and her hand wraps around mine, her soft slender fingers gently gripping at mine.

I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to have to face what I've done to my own mom. I squeeze her hand a little, wishing so fucking hard that she would stop crying. When she feels my grasp tighten, her own strengthens almost enough to hurt.

"I just want my baby back," she whimpers, and I feel the bed sink a little where she leans her head on it, using my blankets to muffle her crying. I want to say something to make it all better, but my head's numb and I can't seem to be able to spit out the words ‘I'll be home soon, mom' or even ‘I miss you too'. Nothing. The only words that seem to drip from my lips are "make it fucking stop."

He head lifts and my eyes flicker open as I plead with her again to make it stop, for her to just end it for me. Her face already glistens with the tears she's spent the last god knows how long crying, but there're more now, thicker and faster.

"Don't say that, honey. Please don't say that." But I'm crying too. My pillow catches whatever comes out of me, and my cries begin to drown out my mom's.

"Please, mom, make it stop." She shakes her head and I sit up, squeezing her hand until she winces, begging with her, "please, please, please," I just keep repeating it, and she just keeps shaking her head and saying ‘no'.

A nurse appears from nowhere, but I'm only vaguely aware of her as I try to get out of bed, fumbling with the sheets that snare me, trying to get my mom to let go of me, stumbling around beside my bed, attempting to get away. My chest tightens and I feel like everything's closing in on me.

The ground rushes up to meet my knees and I land on the floor with a loud cracking sound. I barely feel it. My breaths are short and there are hands on my shoulders, worried voices surrounding me.

"Get off me!" I shout, I cry, I beg, but no one will fucking listen. No one ever fucking listens. No one is ever there to hear you when you need them to hear you the most.

And then I'm quiet. Someone jabbed a needle in me and made me shut up. Here comes zombie Damien, doing what he's told. Good zombie. Have another pill for being so good, zombie. 


The End

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