. (isconfetti) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-02 22:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | eames |
Who: Evan
What: Narrative: Kicking the pills isn't so easy
Where: Apartment → A nameless bar
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Drugs and withdrawal talk
Cory had been gone a week, and things had only gone from bad to worse for Evan. He wasn’t drinking, no, he’d managed to keep that up, at least.
He wasn’t drinking, but he was trying to wean himself off a bunch of prescription drugs without any medical supervision, and that was not the smartest thing he’d ever agreed to. With Cory around, at least, there was someone to watch the effects that lowering dosages had, but there was no Cory, and even Eames taking control a few times during the week hadn’t actually helped matters.
He’d stopped the antidepressant cold turkey, and that had left him with too much brain-fog to think clearly. As a result, he’d cut off the benzos without any tapering earlier in the week and, that morning, the anti-hallucinogens had gone as well. By evening, the world was much the same as it would have been for someone suffering from the DTs, and Evan wasn’t even lucid enough to realize it.
He did realize that he felt oddly, though, and he attempted to correct it by adding a few extra anti-anxiety pills to the mix, which didn’t really help. He slept, and when he woke up to a dark apartment, he decided he couldn’t handle being inside any longer. He dressed haphazardly - jeans and a shirt mistakenly turned inside out - and he dragged his hands through hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days, even after showering six times in a row, the drug withdrawal kicking in compulsive behaviors that weren’t normal for him.
He called for a cab, and he gave the location of his favorite bar, and he was all pupils blown wide and blurred vision and, frighteningly, a mounting paranoia. The cab driver didn’t even charge him, too eager to get away from the crazy asshole in his backseat, the one that spent the whole drive over talking to some chick that didn’t exist, but Evan didn’t notice any of that either.
Getting in the bar was a breeze, even with two days worth of stubble and a shirt that faced the wrong way, and Evan bellied up to the bar and asked for a beer, which he was given, no questions asked. Being a Hampton had its benefits, and he found a semi-circle booth in the corner and slid into it. He watched the crowd, ordered fresh beers on a regular basis, and began imagining that none of the people were real, that it was all a dream. It was Eames’ paranoia, of course, and not his own, but it all blended in, and Becky’s hallucination agreed - well, she would have, if she talked, Evan was sure of it.
As he sat there, heart racing and palms sweating and world closing in at the edges, he thought someone should know about this shit. And so he pulled his phone out of his pocket, and he started texting.