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Just breathe, fucker.
I got Aripiprazole and Lamictal. I reach back into the box spring, digging for... I bring out three more bottles. Amitriptyline. Clonazepam. Zolpidem.
I fill my palm with sixteen Amitriptylines, ten Lamictals, thirteen Clonazepams, and eight Zolpidems, then walk to the armchair, which is pushed beside the light switch, and I get my water from beside it.
My breathing is fast and shallow. Clonazepam will help that within minutes—not even that long if I chew it. Amitriptyline will make sure I pass out cold. Zolpidem, I'll be asleep and won't know how it feels to have seizures or aspirate on my own vomit. Lamictal, I honestly don’t know. But it’ll help me be on my way.
I can fucking feel how good it would be. Numb and sleepy. Heavy. Dead.
I shove the handful into my mouth and chew a few and chase them down with water. I can't swallow all of them, so I hold some in my cheek till the first batch is down, and then I down the rest with one last painful swallow.
I shut my eyes and think of swallowing that long, thick cock that he had jutting almost through his plaid pants. I know it would be clean and groomed, the warm skin soft and silky. The tip would taste like him and smell like him. Miller's cock would hurt my throat. I'd be choking as my lips sucked at his base, or tried to. Saliva would drip down my chin as I gagged on him, but it wouldn't matter. He'd be making noises, gripping my hair or my shoulders. He would be in my mouth, spilling precum.
I look down at my dick, pushing gently at my pants. It's just the slightest bulge—a sign of life.
I want to die so that I never see it again.
I think of sucking Miller off, pushing a finger into his hole. How he would jerk and clench, but then I'd push in deeper, and he'd moan so loud. I'd hear him groaning as I finger-fucked his sweet hole, guzzling his cum the whole time.
If I tried, I could fuck him up in the best way.
And it's evil how I want to. It's so wrong the way I want to throw him off, to fuck with him, manipulate him just so I can hear his noises, taste his skin. He's no one to me. Just a toy. A pretty, freckled, dark-haired, perfect boy for me to ruin if I want.
It would ruin him to find me dead in here tomorrow morning.
My breaths come in tight, sharp gasps. I think I can feel the stuff seep through my stomach into my veins.
Dead, Wrath. Is that what you want?
I lean my hip against the armchair's spine and reach into my pants, cupping myself as I grab more air into my lungs and squeeze my mostly limp dick.
I can die, and I will. I can die. Maybe tonight.
I walk into the bathroom, start the shower, turn on the sink faucet, and kneel down in front of the toilet. I prop my forearms on it how I always do and let my head hang over the bowl.
Don't die.
I can hear his voice say that. It's so pathetic.
Being alive is hell.
I laugh at myself.
Always so dramatic, Masters.
Something hits me. I start shaking. I get scared and start to gasp, so I have to bury my mouth in the inside of my elbow.
Don't be such a pussy.
How does that feel?
I'm shaking. Everything echoes. It's not the pills. I bring them up in just a few tries, and I wash my face with cold sink water, walk back into my room.
It's dark in my head. I hate the dark behind my eyes but...I can't keep them open.
I wake to knocking and a sunlit bedroom. Find myself on top of my duvet, still in my pants from last night.
My head hurts like a bitch.
"Open up the fucking door! I need to get a shower!" Millsy.
I roll off the bed, gather the bottles, stuff them back into the box spring.
"What?" I manage.
"Wake up! We have to get ready for school!"
I shut my eyes. "Are we gonna car pool, Millsy?"
I walk into the bathroom and unlock his door. "Me first," I shout. I'm grinning as I start the shower, picturing his wide-eyed, blue-eyed baby face in my head.
Ten
Josh
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this prick, but I’m not going to be his ride to school.
I grab his wrist and jerk his hand away from the passenger door handle. It gives me a twisted kick of satisfaction—that shocked look on his face.
“Whoa, Mills. Forget to eat your Wheaties?"
My heart pounds so hard that I can feel the heat in my face. "You're not getting in my car, dickface."
"Until?"
"Until?" I make a sound like a laugh. "You are never getting in my car. I heard you talking to my mom as I came down the stairs and sorry that your car's not registered like it should have been. The time to do that was last week so it sounds like your problem."
