Malcolm Tucker (fuckitybye) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2012-12-28 20:55:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !open, ~john mitchell (oe) |
Who? Malcolm Tucker (& open, if anyone likes.)
Where? The Pharmacy
When? Saturday morning.
What? Shoplifting. Self-medicating.
Rating? Possibly high. Language, adult themes etc
Status Complete, unless someone wants to peek in :)
The gift from the island really had been a kick in the balls, as Q had so eloquently put it. At first, he had thought that he'd managed to get off lightly. After all the anticipation, after all the build up to what could possibly be in the envelope marked with his name, it was nothing but a piece of red ribbon. A rosette requesting that he Vote Labour!. He'd laughed it off- nice try, island! But not good enough!
But that was just it- there had been so much build-up, so much talking himself into ripping that envelope open, and the best the island had to offer him was a rosette? Q had found out that his father truly loved him- agony, yes, but meaningful. Other people had family photographs, keepsakes- he had an impersonal piece of ribbon. He didn't know what he wanted. A family photograph would have hurt, of course- a keepsake? But at least it would have made him feel human. Pain was human. Regret was human. Missing your fucking family was human. And this was the island's best shot-
And slowly it started to sink in. Slowly it worked away at him. The island had gotten right into people's minds and given them what it thought they treasured- so what did that say about him? No real friends, no happy family memories, nothing sentimental- just Vote Labour. That, in the scheme of things, was all he amounted to.
He'd kept it inside- easily pretended that it was nothing, that he was pleased for getting off lightly. He'd been there for Grey. Until on Friday night, leading into Saturday morning, he couldn't sleep. Even the sound of Grey breathing next to him couldn't comfort him. And when the sun rose, there was that familiar feeling. The weight on his chest. It was a bad day. He didn't want to worry her, he knew he could be quite melodramatic when he was in one of those moods, so he'd slipped out of bed, dressed and headed out for an early morning walk. He knew that he needed to do something to nip this in the bud before- he became unbearable. It had only been since arriving on the island that he'd stopped dividing his days up into bad days and not-so-bad days- he'd never allowed himself to say it was a good day, only not-so-bad. He didn't want to feel like that again. Fuck the island- what had seemed like a stupid ribbon had eaten away at him before he'd even realised.
It wasn't until his CB radio sounded out his daughter's voice- the wish was going to haunt him forever, it seemed- that he slipped into an abandoned shop and burst into tears. He had closed the door behind him, and moved further inside, slumping down in a corner behind discarded stock as he let himself just give in.
"I don't know, apparently Jeffrey Archer got four years for something similar-"
She was talking about him, and she sounded- hurt, anxious, her voice trying to stay calm but shaking with every second word. He couldn't stop. He had done this to her, and the island- the island clearly thought that he cared more about his party than anything- than anyone. And maybe it was right. No- it was right. And what did that make him? He'd fucked it all up, and now it was too late to do anything about it, all he could do was listen to her pained voice whether he wanted to or not. He wanted to be able to reassure, to explain, to tell her why he'd done it-
"I don't know how they can say it's libel when it's fucking true. People need to know about this shit. You know, I looked it up, and apparently if it's in the public interest, then it's not libel- no, listen to me, I'm serious-"
He laughed through the tears- fuck, she still had his back after everything. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, and tried to calm down. Breathe. Breathe. This was just the island trying to break him, and he knew that he couldn't let it wear him down.
It was some time before he emerged again, and this time he had a plan. He headed for the pharmacy- he was sure that most of the stock had to have been moved to the hospital, but considering everything had been restocked just recently, it was always possible that not everything had been moved over yet.
Everything was a mess, but he got to work, rifling through the boxes in the back, ignoring all of the over-the-counter medication and going straight for prescription strength. Diazepam. Perfect- he pulled the blister packs from the cardboard and stuck a good number of the little pills into his pocket. It wasn't what he was looking for, but it was a fucking start. And then he came upon exactly the sort of thing he needed- Citalopram. Dosage? He tried to think back- 20mg? There was no fucking way he was going to ask one of the doctors' on the island, so he'd just have to see how it went. 20mg rang a bell. Would they ever get more on the island? Should he just take the whole lot? It seemed excessive, but- he didn't know what else to do. As with the valium, he pulled the packs from the cardboard until he had a good few months worth sorted. It was for the best.