- (tinieblas) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-02-07 16:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | !ocean's eleven, *narrative, sam alexander |
[Narrative]
Who: Sam
What: Admission
Where: Hotel → Ocean's Eleven
When: Just after this
Warnings/Rating: Language & themes - depression, drugs, suicide, etc. This is miserable. \o/
The desire to be done, it completely overshadowed the cramping in her gut and the itch that climbed along her fucking arms like ants. And that was when she realized she was really in trouble.
She'd wandered after leaving Cris' the night before. Bloody feet on the snow, and numb enough that she didn't feel a fucking thing. Thinking about a tar high, it was a thing that was deliberate with every footfall in the snow. She could do it, be done. She knew most ODs came after being clean, months and junkies tried to hit the same quantity, like they'd never stopped, and fucking done. And that shit was more tempting than the high. And she knew she was really in trouble.
It wasn't new, yeah? It'd been coming for fucking months, and she knew it was Cris that had kept it at bay, and how unfair was that shit? Like he'd signed up for dead weight, and no wonder he saw an addict first, yeah? She'd been a complete fucking mess since Micah showed up, and it had just been spiraling out of fucking control. Worse and worse, and she fucking knew it. There was no way to take that shit back, and maybe the anon was right. Not that it was like unethical or some fucking bullshit, but forgetting meant Cris would fall into all this shit all over again, and she was newly determined not to fuck him up that way. Not that she was very good at being newly determined, but whatever.
Whatever, and she'd left the door (his, and she had no fucking business being there), and she took off her destroyed shoes and left them in the middle of the hall. Like sneakers tossed over power lines, and blood flecks on the old carpet from her fingers. One shard from that destroyed lamp pulled out of a wasted sole and clutched between her fingers.
Sam wandered to the basement, yeah? Familiar from all those fucking months ago. She dragged the glass across old scars without cutting. Back and forth, and she eventually picked up the journal with dirty fingers. Neil would get her a place. Neil would help. And she felt pathetic well up like bile in the back of her throat, but she wrote, and she waited, and she heard about Micah's wish, and nothing fucking surprised her. And now this shit with Lou, this meant Micah was never going to leave, be caught, die. She fucking knew it, and it was like lead in her limbs, and she wondered why she was even bothering with this entire living thing.
But Neil responded. Twenty minutes, he said, and that felt like forever, and the glass dug shards into her fingertips. She fucking waited, yeah? Rock against the wall, shoulders back and impact, impact, impact. Neil would come, and it would be ok. But Neil didn't come; an address did, and she ground the heel of her palm into her eye, and she laughed hysteria that ricocheted off the basement walls.
She wasn't sure when she actually moved. She wasn't even sure why she fucking moved. Maybe it was just numb, like nothing fucking mattered anymore; she wasn't sure anything did. She felt so fucking alone, and she wasn't going to contact the person she'd just walked away from. Walking away, it was the best thing she'd done for him, yeah? No, and Lou was wherever, and Joey was acting fucking nuts, and who knew where Shane was. Iris was wherever, and Russ had a fucking kid to worry about. And Daniel, Daniel fucking hated her, and Lin might die, and she was a problem. Daniel said it, and he was fucking right. No one wanted that shit, responsibility, like that sick grandparent you had to fucking visit for fifteen minutes on the weekend, just because you fucking have to.
Yeah, no, she wasn't sure when she moved, and she wasn't sure why, but she knew each fucking step felt more alone than the last.
Seven Hills was nice, though it took her nearly two hours to find the door and walk there on bloody-bare feet, dirt on her clothes and her hair in yank-tangles. She looked like something homeless that ended up up in the wrong fucking place. Like someone didn't hit the right book for medical facilities and sent the pauper to the place where people actually gave a shit.
Sam looked at the floor as the nurse behind the counter peered down a very large nose and tried to tell her to go to the local fucking ER. But she swallowed pride that felt like shards, and she gave her name, and the woman didn't turn her away. The doctor that saw her wasn't particularly fucking impressed either, but Sam was too tired to fucking care that they talked to her like she was nothing; she was nothing, and she felt it so fucking keenly right now. And what the fuck was she even doing? Neil had moved on, and this money shit? This wasn't her life anymore. It just fucking wasn't, and she turned around and tried to leave.
But, no, because money spoke louder than bloody toes and filthy fingernails, yeah? And they wanted that paycheck. Acute psychiatric episode, they fucking said. She fought them, but that only earned her a prick of needle to her arm, and that shit made her think of Ian.
Fucking Ian.
Flailing arms and kicking feet that made the quickly-summoned police officer's dark slacks darker with blood. Feet off the ground, and she fucking fought. Her screams were lament. "NO!" and "LET ME GO!" and "please, please please." Down onto the floor, on her belly, like she was a hog to be tied, and then the sedative kicked in; she was boneless weight as they led her back into the secure ward.
72-hour mandatory was written on the chart outside her locked door. The room's exterior window had wire in the plexiglass, and the bed had restraints, and this wasn't 2015. The television in the corner was fat and played some fucking infomercial, but the girl on the bed, scrubbed clean and in insanity-ward white, slept a sedated and dreamless sleep.