Blink {Featured}

Chapter Twenty Six

Fuck. He wanted to slap the pills out of her hands and knock the water over, but then where would he get more Vicodin? 'This is fucking shit,' he mumbled, but took the pills and swallowed them down. At least she didn't know about his brandy, hidden safely behind his pillow. That thought put a smile on his face, and suddenly he wanted her to get the fuck out so he could drink away his misery.

'You done with my fucked up leg?' he said.

The joy left her face, and John closed his eyes. He didn't want to see how he was pissing her off. Who was she to come in here and try to save him? Fuck her, fuck the whole world. And... and fuck the man who'd killed his sister.

'Get out,' he growled.

Sam's jaw dropped.

'Now!' he shouted. God, he needed a drink or he'd go fucking crazy. Or a pill. As soon as Samantha was gone, he tipped another four Vicodin into his palm, sneered, and swallowed them down with a long swig of whiskey. The warmth filled his aching body, and numbed the pain in his leg, but the ache in his heart was still there. Oh Charlie. The memory of them hopping around the kitchen, her squealing, 'Tigger, Tiggeeer,' filled his mind, and more tears ran down his cheeks.

Another memory resurfaced, one he hadn't remembered before. A hooded man, dark and eerie, whispering, 'Tigggeeeeeeeeeer,' in a voice as chilling as the winter wind. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and the hairs on his neck raised. Death. Of course. Why did he only remember now? As he wondered, the pills took effect, and bliss saturated him. Ahh, that was better.

John flexed his toes and leaned back into the pillow, the bottle clutched in his hands. The pain in his leg melted away, but the pain of losing Charlie stayed. Nothing could get rid of that. John supposed people would call it grief, but all he felt was pain radiating through his body, right up to the moment he passed out.

When he awoke it was dark, and the pills had spilled out across the floor. John licked at his dry lips and rubbed his face. Water, he needed water. He pressed the red button, and in less than a minute a maid stood at his bedside.

'What do you need Sir?' She clutched her hands together and did not meet his eyes.

'May I have some water please?' John asked with a raspy voice.

The maid walked over to the cabinet, got out a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels, and poured it out for him, but John reached out and put his hand on top of hers. 'Only water please, I don't want alcohol.'

The shocked look on her face was so comic that a laugh built in John's chest. Was it because he wanted water, or because he was being nice? The maid gave him a quick smile and walked out, returning with a large glass of water filled with ice. She passed it to him, and John couldn't get it down fast enough. Straight after the brain freeze kicked in and John winced against the pain, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth until the headache subsided.

'Will that be all Sir?' she asked.

John nodded. 'Yes, thank you.'

With another quick smile, she left the room.

Being nice felt good. Memories flooded into his mind of all the nasty things he had said in the last couple of months to anyone who had been nearby, his loved ones included. The cruelty of his jibes shamed him, and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to hide under the covers and never come out. How could anyone love him anymore? He knew he was merely endured, not loved. No one could love a self-centred, conceited asshole like him, and the more he thought about it, the more he hated himself.

His hands were shaking; a gnawing at his mind snapped him back out of his self-pity. Ah, the addiction. Had it been Grimsol? Or was he so weak that he needed something as a crutch? A solitary tear ran down his cheek and he rubbed it away. 'Oh how I wish I could Blink back to the past, I was happy then,' he said to the empty room. Blink. Why did that mean something?