WAKE (Wattpad edition)

19. Falling apart.

{Jon}

"Jon, time to wake up." His father's hand shaking his shoulder made the room twirl and his headache pound double time. Jon groaned and brought his blankets up to cover his head. "I'm sick, Dad. Not going to school."

The bed rocked as his father sat down on the edge of it. "I know you're sick, son. We're going to the hospital." Pete began to peel the blankets off him, and Jon made a shrill cry of protest, balling up and hanging on.

"No—no hospital! I'll be fine!"

"You won't be fine," Pete said evenly. "You're experiencing withdrawal from opioid addiction. You need more help than we can give you here."

Jon made a strangled noise, feeling like his bed had flipped upside down, dumping him down a slide to hell. He scrambled to the corner of his bed, holding his pillow in front of him like a shield. "That's a fucking lie—Cary is a liar and you know it!" His voice was high and strained, cracking in places. If the room hadn't been spinning and reeling like a funhouse ride, he would have got up and lit into Cary himself.

Pete had his hands folded in his lap, the only steady point in the rocking room. "The hospital has a program that can help you. Drugs to help wean you off."

Jon abruptly stopped shrieking his accusations. His breathing came faster and his mouth watered. "Drugs?"

Pete nodded, his mouth flat inside his beard. He got up and turned away from him to the closet. "Do you need my help to get dressed?"

"No—fuck," Jon muttered. "I can fucking dress myself, Dad." He hardly noticed the swears popping out.

His dad stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Jon swayed to the closet, dressing in short, shaky jerks. His stomach was in knots, and his head was pounding, and he didn't care because the hospital was going to give him drugs that would make all these feelings go away.

He hadn't been upright and in the daylight for a couple days, and walking to the car almost cost him the little juice he'd been able to stomach for breakfast. He rode with his head pressed back against the seat and his eyes squeezed shut. For once, his father had nothing to say to him and he didn't have to think about anything except how much better he was going to feel when he got those drugs.

The hospital took forever—one nurse made him pee in a cup and then sit and wait, then a new nurse made him pee again and wait in a new room. At least it was cool and quiet in this room, not like the ER waiting area, and his father sat reading his Bible on his phone while Jon jiggled and sweated and shook.

When the doctor came in, she swept a glance over his sweating face and the bandages on his arms before checking her clipboard. "Do you feel comfortable talking to me in front of your parent?" she asked in a clinical voice.

Pete stirred in his chair. "He's just 15. I would like to be here."

"I don't want him here," Jon said. The pain in his head matched the look on his father's face as Pete rose and left.

She asked questions about cutting and he lied. She asked questions about whether he wanted to die—he said no and he was pretty sure that was the truth. "When do I get my drugs?" he asked every five minutes, and it seemed like she was ignoring him, writing on her clipboard. She left and another person came, also with a clipboard. He asked more questions until Jon couldn't keep track what lies he'd told and what was the truth. "When do I get my drugs?" he asked this new person.

The man tapped his pen against his clipboard, his bushy eyebrows going up and down. "We need to make a decision here, young man, about what would be best for your recovery. There are treatment centres where you could live full-time—or you could participate in our outpatient program and come in a few times a week to see a psychologist."