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the Lord is waitin' to take your hand
[ He didn't notice immediately. He had some pills left over. It wasn't until two days after he was himself again that he knew. He wished for a bottle of Vicodin. Nothing materialized. Nothing fell from the air. No ghost came in bearing one. He wished for a pill. Nothing again. When he ducked inside the supply closet where the narcotics are kept under lock, he uncapped the white bottle there and shook a few pills into his palm. Their color was off. He popped one into his mouth and spat it back out. Sugar. His pills turned into sugar.
That had been yesterday. He fled the clinic the moment the symptoms began. He has no desire to be seen in this state by those incompetent fools. He doesn't want their false sympathy or their judgment. The hell do they know? Nothing. Everyone there is the same. Simpering. Worthless. Stupid.
He had found an empty room to hide in, which is where he is. However, his loss had kicked in with a vengeance. He recognizes the signs of withdrawal, but they're sharper now. His leg feels like it is on fire. As if the pain wasn't debilitating enough, the blind panic robs him of what little sense he has left. It's dark and it's stifling and a trapped feeling lies slickly on his skin, slithers into his veins, settles heavily into his heaving tissues, screaming.
He just wants a pill. He just needs a pill. Just one.
He can't be alone anymore.
Pulling his journal toward him, he flips it open. ]
[ John Watson ]
You better be up.
Come on.
Watson, you idiot.
[ Allen Walker ]
Walker. Emergency.
That had been yesterday. He fled the clinic the moment the symptoms began. He has no desire to be seen in this state by those incompetent fools. He doesn't want their false sympathy or their judgment. The hell do they know? Nothing. Everyone there is the same. Simpering. Worthless. Stupid.
He had found an empty room to hide in, which is where he is. However, his loss had kicked in with a vengeance. He recognizes the signs of withdrawal, but they're sharper now. His leg feels like it is on fire. As if the pain wasn't debilitating enough, the blind panic robs him of what little sense he has left. It's dark and it's stifling and a trapped feeling lies slickly on his skin, slithers into his veins, settles heavily into his heaving tissues, screaming.
He just wants a pill. He just needs a pill. Just one.
He can't be alone anymore.
Pulling his journal toward him, he flips it open. ]
[ John Watson ]
You better be up.
Come on.
Watson, you idiot.
[ Allen Walker ]
Walker. Emergency.
[Filter]
Where?
[ Filter ]
[ Filter ]
[Which he is! He grabs his medical bag and heading straight for that room. He'll knock and then see if the door is open]
filter forever /lazy
Can you wish for Vicodin?
and ever!
Ah- yes, of course.
[He wishes for a bottle. What the hell is this about?]
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It's sugar!
[ He pulls back into the room and slams the door shut. ]
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[What. just. happened.]
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I'm sorry, but what is going on?
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[ It's only a few steps to the couch from the table, but the sweat rolls down his face in beads by the time he reaches it. He clutches the glass of scotch like a lifeline. ]
I'm preparing for a night out on the town. Gonna hit the strip clubs. I'll buy you a lap dance.
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What about other types of painkillers?
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What is it that's causing you pain? The leg...or being unable to take those pills?
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So the latter then.
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Well?
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Then get. Out.
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I'll be back later.
[He's turning to go]
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Hey buddy.
Fuck you. ]
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