Drugs. I need my drugs.
Keeping my eyes closed, I reach out my hand and wave it around until it finds the drawer in my bedside unit. Pulling it open, I spend a long time rummaging through the contents, my fingers trying to find the small card box that contains my drugs. I don’t feel anything remotely similar.
Bathroom. They must be in the bathroom.
Groaning, and with only one eye partially open, I stumble back to the bathroom, the smell of vomit hitting my nostrils before I’m even fully in the room. I deliberately ignore looking at the toilet, and instead focus on opening the cupboard under the sink.
Opening both eyes, I look around, starting to move bottles, tubes and tubs around to try and find the box I’m looking for. It’s not here.
In fact, I can’t remember ever seeing it in this flat.
A wave of icy cold realisation floods me.
“Shit,” I say out loud.
The last time I saw them, the last time I took one, was in my old place, Hannah’s flat.
I sigh loudly and release a string of curses as I hobble back to my bed and find my phone. The screen is full of notifications but I swipe them away quickly. My vision is still blurry and it hurts to look directly down, especially at something so bright and busy. Dialling the screen’s brightness right down, I find Hannah’s contact number and call it. I give the time on my phone a quick glance before bringing the device to my ear.
11:15.
Hannah has hopefully finished training and is heading back to her flat. If I’m lucky I’ll catch her before she disappears into the shower for a good twenty minutes. Lucky bitch with that nice hot shower I took for granted.
11:15.
My stomach sinks.
The pitch is probably over now. I wonder how it went. I wonder what Charlie thinks happened to me. I wonder if the client even knows I exist.
I close my eyes and it’s only a small surprise when a single tear gets squeezed out of the corner of my right eye. I’m heartbroken I missed the pitch. I’m devastated I missed my chance. But then I let that ache go. I’m still too unwell to even think about how disappointed I am that I won’t be campaign lead, and likely not HNO’s new Creative Director.
Heck, I don’t even know if I still have a job.
I will call work and explain, just as soon as I…
“Mina?” Hannah’s voice lands in my ear.
“Oh, Hannah, thank God,” I say, exhaling heavily.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m having a migraine. A bad one. I left my pills at your place. Could you find them and put them in a taxi, please. I’ll pay for it, of course.”
There’s a pause that lasts entirely too long but I also don’t have the energy to prompt a response from Hannah. Instead, I lie down on my bed, curl my body up and wait.
“Where are you?” she asks eventually.
“At home.”
“Yeah, I mean where is that?”
“Oh, right. You don’t know where I live now.”
“Can you text me the address?”
“Honestly, no, I can’t. It hurts to look at my phone. It still hurts to look at anything.”
“Jesus,” Hannah says and then I hear rustling in the background. “Okay, I’ve got a pen. What’s the address?”
