Who: Jerome & Felix When: around 4 pm Where: kitchen What: Not baking for once
If Jerome would have to pick the worst day of his life, it would probably be this day. Not any of the shit days of his past which had been presented to him so maliciously last night, even if they unarguably were worse, but for the time being, for the very time being, it was definitely this day.
He couldn't even remember how much he had drunk in the end. There were several empty bottles strewn across his room, but also alcohol on the floor, and due to a rather large memory gap, he couldn't quite estimate how much of that alcohol had ended up inside his bloodstream in the end. Only that it probably had been much, way too much, dangerously much, something he had always tried to prevent from happening by never wasting himself too much, never drinking the hard stuff, always stopping as long as he was still able to walk straight. It was quite astounding that for someone like him, being borderline-alcoholic for quite an amount of years now, he had never actually completely wasted himself before. The urge had been there, more times than he could actually remember, but the feeling of responsibility had always managed to outweigh his trembling hands begging his mouth to just open again and let more of the toxic substance enter his throat, helping him to numb, to forget, to stand still, outweighing these urges before the alcohol would push him over the edge and make it impossible for him to stop.
Responsibility that he could cling to and that, apparently, had been distracting him from being too self-destructive. Responsibility that didn't matter inside this place, leading to whatever this was.
Jerome had woken sometime around noon on the floor of his room, not remembering how he had even gotten there in the first place, only knowing that at some point, he had just given up on his reasonable resistance and given in to the ever-lurking urge to just fuck the world and never stop drinking until everything would be drowned inside a blackening numbness. And things had been black for sure. Jerome couldn't estimate if he had fallen asleep or fallen unconscious, which could have led to severe consequences unless They would intervene when one of Their test subjects would decide to gamble with their life like that. Something Jerome couldn't quite imagine happening, having the picture inside his head of Them enjoying to just watch through Their camera lenses how things play out. And seriously, yesterday, he wouldn't even have cared, as in his intense state of desperation, life itself hadn't seemed like a valuabe thing to aim for anymore. There hadn't been thoughts like wanting to see his children after a while, only the bitter realization that he wouldn't be able to see them again anymore anyway, being contained in a place that wouldn't let him go, run by people too powerful to be outsmarted. It had felt like a fist clenching around his heart and draining every inch of willpower to continue on. In a way, it had been the evening he really got to arrive in Zenith. A reality check with devastating consequences.
Today, at least his will to live had been restored, and in a way, experiencing the worst hangover of his life helped tremendously with dealing with all of the feelings still lingering inside his heart, not being done with him at all, the mocking realization of being here, the taunting memories of past events having been refreshed in blinding colours, the distorted face of his late wife grinning like the devil and piercing through his mind. All of that was still there, lurking, but luckily in a very ironic way, Jerome didn't have the strength to subdue to these emotions and pictures again. The only thing not being suppressed by his physical condition was his shame for what he had done to hinmself, the reprimand, the regrets, and the overall self-loathing connected to all of these basic feelings Jerome was so accustomed to. These feelings basically bathed inside the pool of physical symptoms his alcohol intoxication threw at him mercilessly, to a point where Jerome seriously considered reaching out for help, even though he didn't want anyone to see him like that. For as long as most of the afternoon, Jerome wasn't even able to stand up, having drunken so much that he still wasn't even nearing the sober state, feeling his heart racing, feeling heated up while trembling as if it was fucking cold, trying to crawl with his blurry vision inside the bathroom and luckily managing to reach the toilet before throwing up for the first time, with many times to follow. The nausea didn't ease up for many hours to come, his head was throbbing as if fucking bombs were exploding inside, one after another, and managing to even reach the tab to satisfy his insane thirst proved to be a lot of work, as his legs still weren't willing to keep him in a standing position for more than a mere seconds. On top of that, thinking straight was not possible at all, as not only his vision, but the world itself seemed blurry and surreal, making him wonder how long he had actually drunk and how short his sleep or unconsciousness must have been for him to still be this fucking drunk after presumable hours.
What did they say? The liver was able to break down 0,1% alkohol per hour? How much did he the fuck drink.
Ironically, the wish to just die was replaced with the feeling that he, indeed, was dying, when he just wanted this whole nonsense to finally stop and to be able to sleep, erasing this day from his memory, preferably including the fucking parade from the evening before. Minutes seemed like hours, and after many of actual hours had passed, he wasn't sure how he even had lived through that bullshit for so long, leaning against the wall in his bathroom exhaustedly and still experiencing way too much pain to even think about sleeping. The headache didn't ease up at all, whereas at least the nausea had gotten better, as had his vision and his ability to formulate actual thoughts and thus, words to send to people over the network. God fucking bless his phone.
It was good to know that there were presumably painkillers in the kitchen. It was, however, pretty unfortunate that the kitchen was rather far away from his room, including one set of stairs, and right now, stairs didn't seem like anything he would want to even see. The mere thought of the actual smell of any kind of food in the kitchen was able to worsen his nausea again in an instant, despite his stomach growling in desperate need of something to fill it, other than tab water which still was kind of a task to reach, but he was getting there. Slowly and steadily.
Why the fuck had he done this to himself. He perfectly knew, but this wasn't an excuse. He had managed with wine and light hangovers very well before. Very well. He snorted dismissively as this thought seemed like just another taunt.
Once again, he contemplated asking someone to actually get him the painkillers, but in the end, he couldn't get himself to actually do it. Why should he burden other people with his incapability to restrain himself? He had already done that before with Oliver, and as Oliver had seemed pretty defensive over the network today, Jerome sure as hell wouldn't bother him with his bullshit hangover. Obviously, Oliver being actually defensive was just yet another exaggeration of his mind, blaming himself for pushing Oliver with questions that could potentially upset him, feeling like he really was a failure regarding this whole friendship thing. Had he just thought of Oliver as a friend? He had. They knew each other only a week and still, his drunken mind spit things out he normally wouldn't even notice. They at least developed something like that, right? Still, he was way too obtrusive, always bothering that poor guy. He should keep to himself more.
His mind continued spitting out thoughts all over the place, steering away from the painful topics lingering inside his heart and making him wonder how he had ended up making a friend and joking with him about being called his second boyfriend after only one week of knowing each other. And Pam. She was adorable, even though it irked him that she firmly believed he wasn't able to clean up after himself. Did she even firmly believe that?
Also did it really hurt him a little that Oliver had reacted that way? Even though he still blamed himself for asking, even though he could understand this reaction. But was it really hurting him? What the hell was going on here, since when was he at all interested in stuff like that? It was obviously hurting him a little. Did he feel rejected? Now it was getting ridiculous, and Jerome was shaking his aching head slowly, grunting from pain in the process, wondering where the fuck his thoughts had went there. It had been distracting at least, for a little while, and clinging to his relationships inside this place helped suppressing the pain about the things outside this place. If things inside here had meaning, then managing the reality of having to stay here would be easier. Jerome was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to let his guilt regarding this matter dwell up now, telling him that searching for comfort inside this place was equivalent to abandoning and betraying his children.
I was way better to muse about how in the hell had another man vaguely his age managed to make him feel rejected.
He was able to understand now why Oliver had preferred talking about things happening inside of Zenith rather than outside. Oliver had the luck to have found the presumably best way of coping with this situation, having fallen in love with someone here and being together with him. Jerome was genuinely glad that this had happened. Maybe there were other couples, too. He still hadn't met many people.
After a while of bathing inside the new headspace his mind had created to help him climbing up the edge he had been pushed over the day before, Jerome, getting really tired of sitting there, aching, ocassionally throwing up and feeling like shit, decided to eventually descend to the kitchen to finally grab the painkillers and maybe some stomach medicine if the first aid kit would host them. Otherwise he could make himself some chamomile tea, if he would even manage. A short look on the clock on his phone told him that it was 3:53 pm, which meant that he had sat here for at least four hours now, maybe more. Probably more. Actually, how had he managed to be in the kitchen literally all the time and not notice that damn first aid kit?
Standing up was, still, quite a chore, and Jerome needed to lean against the wall to even be able to hold himself straight. Yes, asking Oliver for help would have been a really bad idea, remembering that they already had experienced a situation like this which had been shameful, but not nearly that shameful. Jerome could at least comprehend why trying out the barrier had been a thing. This alcohol excess, not so much. It was not like he didn't know why he had done it, it was more that he wasn't able to show himself any kind of lenience, to a point where he was certain that he didn't deserve any kind of help. Adding to that, he hoped the kitchen would be empty, and that he would not encounter someone inside the halls. There was a great possibility he would, given that this house was way smaller than the mansion, but maybe people were outside. It was cloudy, but still warm.
Please be outside and don't see me.
He grunted again when trying to navigate himself, stumbling over his own feet several times until he decided to just stay supported against the wall while he was attempting to walk. He was dehydrated and deciding that grabbing a bottle of anything would be better than his miserable attempts with the tab, as actually having a bottle or even a glass would help tremendously. He also definitely needed electrolytes. Dextrose. His body was basically drained off everything at this point.
The headache got more severe again when he attempted to actually move, and his miserable walk to the kitchen was accompanied by little grunts and stumbling, at one point little dots in front of his eyes, even though his vision was almost completely restored at this point. His eyes, however, were itchy and probably red, as he hadn't been able to change his lenses yet, and they weren't supposed to stay inside of the eyes overnight, let alone another day. Still, they would have to stay there a little longer, as his hands were way too trembly to operate anything near his eyes. Even if he had glasses, he probably wouldn't be able to use them now.
The stairs were a challenge, and he almost fell mid-way, getting a grip at the handrail just in time, while his eyes started the dot thing again, thanks to the dizziness he was experiencing right now. He should eat a fruit for some dextrose first thing down in the kitchen, which could be bad for his stomach right now, but as far as he knew, there weren't any dextrose dragees anywhere. Where those even a thing in America?
He decided to eat a banana, hopefully not throw it up, still hoping that the kitchen would be empty and that nobody would to witness him being in this ridiculous state. He had always tried to hide symptomps of any illness from everyone, and mostly, this had been possible just fine, but this time, he wouldn't be able to.
Empty kitchen.
For a second, Jerome closed his eyes, leaning in the doorway trying to fight the dancing dots and thanking God in whom he didn't even believe for having led him into an empty kitchen. After taking a deep breath, trying to fight the worsening nausea as the smell of food hit his nose, as he had predicted, he slowly made his way to the sink in an attempt to grab a glass, still using the wall to support him, just in case he would stumble again. Water. Dextrose. Painkillers. Sleep. Maybe chamomile tea.
Shouldn't take too long. Sadly, it also didn't take too long for someone else to enter the kitchen, and as Jerome's hands were still trembling as fuck, the drinking glass he had just grabbed fell down, encouraged by the short feeling of being startled by those footsteps. Luckily, it lived through that ordeal without a crack, surprisingly enough, but the actual thought of having to crouch down now was anything but pleasant. Supporting himself on the sink, he glanced over his shoulder, making out the figure of a man inside many many tiny dots. Either his vision still fooled him, or he really hadn't met this guy before, and he briefly catched his gaze while trying to maintain his stance and not to look too miserable. Which probably didn't work at all. Fuck. Would have be too great to stay alone in here.