. (afrit) wrote in repose, @ 2016-02-17 01:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, sam martin |
[Narrative.]
Who: Sam
What: Narrative: Relocating to inpatient facility
Where: Capital
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Language and non-specific mentions of drug stuff
Getting into the inpatient facility, after checking herself out of the hospital against doctor's orders, was kinda a pain in the ass, yeah? It involved Sam getting carted the fuck back to the ER, where they did the scan and tests she'd bailed on, because no one was willing to detox her without being sure her head wasn't going to explode or something. It was a long day, and she spent most of it alone with her thoughts, which wasn't a good place to be.
Her thoughts were chaotic things, slamming against the insides of her skull and banking around like pinballs in a machine. Home, she woulda grabbed a brush and destroyed a canvas with layers upon layers of paint, like leaving an indelible mark on the world made it easier to process. But she wasn't home, yeah? For those hours, she was alone in a world of anesthetized white, her fears stark as blood dripping fat droplets against those white walls.
She was worried about Cris, yeah? She was hella worried about Cris. She'd never seen him like this, and maybe it was cowardly or something, getting herself locked up when he was how he was. But there was a flipside, yeah? If she stayed out, stressed like she was and that tension a weight against her fucking chest, she would score. She could feel it in her fucking bones, and it wasn't even hunger ache. Nah, man, it was the fact that there was so much SHIT in her head. She hadn't seen the fucking baby, and she wasn't sure she could. She was still feeling weirdly detached from everything, and she'd go from sobbing to being hella angry, then back, and all in the span of a few minutes. She HURT, like physically, and she knew that shit was normal, but she was starting to have trouble dealing with it, yeah? Since she couldn't TAKE anything for it, not with the fucking dose still lingering in her system and blocking the effect of any opioids. And she was messed-up about the drugs, about wanting them, and the whole fucking process of HAVING the baby had left her messed-up in this fucked up way, like she wasn't in control of her body, and that made her think of shit she tried to pretend never happened to her.
And all that, all that wasn't as bad as her worry over Cris. And so she checked herself in, because she didn't think HE could handle HER shit right now, and he definitely couldn't handle drying her out. He'd said so, yeah? And she knew he wasn't up to it. She felt fucking alone, and she'd forgotten how cold that shit felt. It was like a physical chill, and she hated it.
And getting bused back to the facility, after the tests were done with, didn't help. The last time she'd been in, Joey had gotten killed. She didn't have a good memory of rehab-headplace-combos. But this one was nice, yeah? It was a house, a BIG fucking house, and it didn't look like a medical place at all. Sure, the windows had that glass you couldn't break, and the place was alarmed all over, but it was the kinda place you signed into voluntary, and so it wasn't like some prison, yeah? It had ten rooms, twenty patients tops, and even fewer in winter. Sam had an easel in her room, and it meant she could paint.
Course, it was hella fucking expensive, and she didn't want to bill Cris for this shit. It wasn't like this kinda place took insurance, yeah? So she billed to Daniel, and she figured she could tell him to go sell the bracelet he gave her for Christmas. Sam didn't know jewelry, but she figured it might cover it, yeah? If not, she'd manage somehow or whatever, but she didn't wanna fuck with Cris about it, like it was more pressure on him or something. So, yeah, she signed all the fucking papers, the ones that basically signed over her rights for a month, and she settled in. No visitors the first week or whatever, and that was fine, because detoxing sucked. Sam KNEW detoxing sucked.
And the first days fucking SUCKED.
Man, the ache in her bones was like shards trying to eat through to fucking marrow, and the pain in her gut kept her curled up crying at the foot of her bed. She tried to paint, but all she managed was dragged fingers in red and blue, pain dragged across canvas in fingernails angry. She was pasty-pale, and she could barely keep water down, and she fucking hated.
They offered, a few times, to let her go see the baby, because of course that was cool. But she couldn't, yeah? And her therapist, who came up to the attic room and sat in a chair while Sam painted pain on magic white, just told her to take her time. It was advice Sam could accept, that Sam understood, but she still felt like a fucking failure, yeah? A failure to the kid, to Cris, to Lou, even to Daniel and Iris and everyone the fuck else who depended on her to be OK. And she needed to, yeah? That was what she thought about, desperate and too wrecked to sleep.
She needed to be OK.
She needed to fucking be OK.