one-shot;
Man Like Me
Author: Jordan [ insane-pyro-grl archive]
Rating: R
Warnings: Alcoholism, Drugs, etc
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, didn't happen.
POV: 1st, Bam's.
Word Count: 1705
Summary: They don't understand that these are the only things that keep him alive lately. The drink and drugs. He hasn't been sober in months, maybe years now. He can't stop, but he needs to. He's not an addict, no matter what they say.
Author Notes: This is based off of one of my favorite songs, Man Like Me by Robert Downey Jr [yes, that RDJ from Iron Man]. You can listen to it on Youtube here and, honestly, it will greaten the experience of reading this fic. Also, confession time! This is the first fic I've written specifically for vam in a while. I started writing this a few months ago and lost it when my laptop went down, but luckily, I got it back. I hope you all enjoy!
Man Like Me
You think I don’t know what the two of you have been planning? I’m not stupid. I’ve known for months that the two of you have been collaborating against me.
She’s tried for months, almost a year now. But I’m not budging. I’m fine. I know exactly what I’m doing, all right? I know what I’m doing and I know how to stop.
I can stop, you know.
I’m not Deron. I’m not Steve. I’m not even Ville. I am not out of control.
She recruited him when she thought things were at their worst. After she finally packed her bags and left. I’m still not sure what to make of it. In some aspects, I’m quite glad she’s gone. Having her around was like being married to my mother.
Don’t do this. Don’t do that. You’re out of control, Bam.
I am not.
I can quit whenever I want.
I am not an addict. Do not treat me like one.
I don’t need to go to rehab. Rehab is for addicts. Rehab is for Lindsay Lohan.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t talked to me lately. He’s afraid that I’ll drag him back in. I’m toxic to him now. Apparently I’m toxic to everyone who doesn’t have a problem. Or, at least, that’s what she told me.
I still have the letter he wrote me. How he told me how much he loved me and that he didn’t want to see me get hurt.
How am I going to get hurt? I’m invincible. I’m like fucking Iron Man.
Bad example, I forgot Tony Stark was a womanizing alcoholic. But, hey, he straightened up for Pepper Potts in the end though, didn’t he?
That’s all I need is one more hit. One more night of not thinking. But then the nights roll into weeks and the weeks turn into months. But, I’m fine.
Just one more high. That’s all I need.
She’s gone. He barely cares anymore. Yet they’re tag-teaming me into rehab.
When I don’t need it.
All I have is myself nowadays. My brain never shuts off.
The only way I can stop thinking is if I drink myself into that special stupor where everything slows down. You can’t see. You can’t feel. You can’t think. It’s dangerous getting there, because that’s the road straight to depression. If you don’t drink enough, you end up suicidal after a while, but if you buck up and keep drinking you get to that perfect stupor.
Drink a little more. Smoke a little more. Snort a little more. Inject a little more.
Clear the brain.
Maybe then I can sleep. I haven’t slept in ages.
I miss sleep. It’s so relaxing. I’m jittery all the time. I can barely light my cigarettes without jerking and burning myself.
It’s the caffeine. I drink too much coffee. Red Bull and coffee and vodka.
I’m fine.
I don’t need help.
I can stop whenever.
One more high. Then I’ll quit. Get off my back, Valo. I can quit.
Just one more stupor.
Let me quit thinking for a little while longer. I’m tired of thinking of thirty different things at once. It kills me. It’s why I can’t sleep at night. I need the stupor. I need the smoke. I need the powder. I need the liquid. It’s what keeps me running.
But I am not an addict.
I’m still the man I was four years ago. I haven’t changed that much. Despite the lies she’s fed him. She acted like I couldn’t hear her on the phone with him.
How Ville has to help me out of my addictions.
But I don’t need him. I’m fine. I’m quitting.
Just one more high.
I feel like shit. Withdrawals. I need the hit. I need the high.
I look like shit. I just throw on more eyeliner and another hat on my greasy head. I’ll be fine. The bags underneath my eyes are from my lack of sleep. I’ll be fine.
I only buy enough for one more night. That’s it. I’m done.
See, I can quit whenever I want. I’m not an addict. I’ll take it easy. I’ll show them.
One more high. One more stupor. Just one more time that I don’t have to think about much. Just the blood flowing through my veins. The beat of my heart. The erratic breathing.
They think I’ll be back for more tomorrow.
I’m done. I’m not an addict. I can quit.
I am quitting.
I have to show them.
I’ll prove it to them. Or die trying.
I somehow dial him.
Yo, Valo, I’m done. You’re wrong. I’m not an addict. I can quit. I am quitting.
You and Missy were wrong, you know. I don’t need rehab.
He doesn’t believe me. Just thinks I’m speaking gibberish while in another stupor.
He’ll come and investigate soon. He always does. People don’t know that he’s a curious person. If curiosity killed the cat, Valo is one dead pussy.
I wake up this morning more groggy than I’ve ever been in my life. Every muscle in my body aches and I don’t even to attempt to move, because I know it will be twenty billion times worse.
My head is pounding and I feel like I’m going to puke everywhere, despite being hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life. It physically hurts to open my eyelids and see the sun shining on me and it hurts even more to blink.
There’s a knock on the door and I try to yell that the door’s open and to come in, but no words come out. My throat is on fire. I need water.
Whoever was at the door comes on in anyway, so there could be a mass-murdering psycho in my house and I’d never know. Rad. I’m pretty sure if I had to choose between death and this withdrawal, I’d take death any day.
It doesn’t take long to find out who walked in. I can feel them sit down at the other end of the couch where my feet are.
“Hello, Brandon,”
It’s Ville. Of course. Always the curious creature.
I try to say anything, but all that comes out is a horrible low groan which I can feel rumble through my body.
The springs of the couch decompress as he gets up.
Centuries later, I feel something cold being poured all over my body. It’s like I’m being stabbed with thousands of icicles. It burns like fire, yet I know it’s cold and it hurts and feels so good at the same time. My mouth automatically opens in a scream that never comes. It hurts to swallow, like that time I had strep throat when I was eleven, but I feel so much better afterward.
“Swallow these.”
I barely see a few white pills go from his hand onto my tongue before I swallow them down with another gulp of water.
“Sit up, I’ll make you some breakfast.”
He leaves the room again as I attempt to sit up. It’s like I can feel every nerve sparking, every muscle being set on fire, every bone cracking and grinding into powder. It’s the exact opposite of how I’ve felt in the past few years. I usually feel these things, but it’s such a high that it’s a rush to do anything. Now I just want to lay here and wait for the Grim Reaper to show up.
The smell of food makes me want to vomit. But I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life.
There’s a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me. I try a bite of toast. It’s like chewing on a shingle. Nothing tastes right. It hurts to even bite down or chew.
I can’t do it. No way is all of this food getting into my system. I want to puke just thinking about all of that food working its way into my belly.
I try a bite of scrambled eggs. It’s softer to chew and goes down a little easier, but I can taste the tiny about of grease that the bacon has given them on the plate and I want to just vomit everywhere.
But that would mean getting up. And I am not getting up.
I just want to fall asleep forever. Sleep everything off, wake up a few days later and maybe I’ll be normal again.
“Don’t even think about falling asleep again.”
It’s like he can read minds.
“You’re showing me where everything is and it’s getting dumped. All of it. Drugs, booze, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all going.”
I open my mouth and somehow I manage to say, “It’s gone.”
“All of it? There’s nothing left in the house?”
I nod, somehow, as I feel my disks slide against one another, my spine cracking slightly.
“You know, she told me not to come. She said you were a lost cause. But I believe in you. If you get help, you can be the man I loved so long ago.”
I feel the anger bubbling up inside of me like a bad chemical reaction. It’s the anger which gives me the strength to spit the words at him, “I don’t need help. Stop trying to send me away.”
He shakes his head. It makes me dizzy just watching him.
“You need help. You’re obviously not okay if this keeps happening. You should see the signs. I know I can see them in you. I was an addict, Bam, I can see it in you as well. You say you don’t need help, but I know you do. I love you, I can’t stand to see you hurt yourself like this any longer.”
I knew he wouldn’t believe me. No one ever does. I know how to control this addiction. It’s over now.
I don’t want to do this to myself anymore. I want to regain normality.
He’s going to save me. I know he is. Because he knows what this feels like. He knows how bad this withdrawal is. He can help me through this.
Either he’s going to help me, or I’m going to die trying to beat this.
Let’s see which it is.
Author: Jordan [ insane-pyro-grl archive]
Rating: R
Warnings: Alcoholism, Drugs, etc
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, didn't happen.
POV: 1st, Bam's.
Word Count: 1705
Summary: They don't understand that these are the only things that keep him alive lately. The drink and drugs. He hasn't been sober in months, maybe years now. He can't stop, but he needs to. He's not an addict, no matter what they say.
Author Notes: This is based off of one of my favorite songs, Man Like Me by Robert Downey Jr [yes, that RDJ from Iron Man]. You can listen to it on Youtube here and, honestly, it will greaten the experience of reading this fic. Also, confession time! This is the first fic I've written specifically for vam in a while. I started writing this a few months ago and lost it when my laptop went down, but luckily, I got it back. I hope you all enjoy!
Man Like Me
You think I don’t know what the two of you have been planning? I’m not stupid. I’ve known for months that the two of you have been collaborating against me.
She’s tried for months, almost a year now. But I’m not budging. I’m fine. I know exactly what I’m doing, all right? I know what I’m doing and I know how to stop.
I can stop, you know.
I’m not Deron. I’m not Steve. I’m not even Ville. I am not out of control.
She recruited him when she thought things were at their worst. After she finally packed her bags and left. I’m still not sure what to make of it. In some aspects, I’m quite glad she’s gone. Having her around was like being married to my mother.
Don’t do this. Don’t do that. You’re out of control, Bam.
I am not.
I can quit whenever I want.
I am not an addict. Do not treat me like one.
I don’t need to go to rehab. Rehab is for addicts. Rehab is for Lindsay Lohan.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t talked to me lately. He’s afraid that I’ll drag him back in. I’m toxic to him now. Apparently I’m toxic to everyone who doesn’t have a problem. Or, at least, that’s what she told me.
I still have the letter he wrote me. How he told me how much he loved me and that he didn’t want to see me get hurt.
How am I going to get hurt? I’m invincible. I’m like fucking Iron Man.
Bad example, I forgot Tony Stark was a womanizing alcoholic. But, hey, he straightened up for Pepper Potts in the end though, didn’t he?
That’s all I need is one more hit. One more night of not thinking. But then the nights roll into weeks and the weeks turn into months. But, I’m fine.
Just one more high. That’s all I need.
She’s gone. He barely cares anymore. Yet they’re tag-teaming me into rehab.
When I don’t need it.
All I have is myself nowadays. My brain never shuts off.
The only way I can stop thinking is if I drink myself into that special stupor where everything slows down. You can’t see. You can’t feel. You can’t think. It’s dangerous getting there, because that’s the road straight to depression. If you don’t drink enough, you end up suicidal after a while, but if you buck up and keep drinking you get to that perfect stupor.
Drink a little more. Smoke a little more. Snort a little more. Inject a little more.
Clear the brain.
Maybe then I can sleep. I haven’t slept in ages.
I miss sleep. It’s so relaxing. I’m jittery all the time. I can barely light my cigarettes without jerking and burning myself.
It’s the caffeine. I drink too much coffee. Red Bull and coffee and vodka.
I’m fine.
I don’t need help.
I can stop whenever.
One more high. Then I’ll quit. Get off my back, Valo. I can quit.
Just one more stupor.
Let me quit thinking for a little while longer. I’m tired of thinking of thirty different things at once. It kills me. It’s why I can’t sleep at night. I need the stupor. I need the smoke. I need the powder. I need the liquid. It’s what keeps me running.
But I am not an addict.
I’m still the man I was four years ago. I haven’t changed that much. Despite the lies she’s fed him. She acted like I couldn’t hear her on the phone with him.
How Ville has to help me out of my addictions.
But I don’t need him. I’m fine. I’m quitting.
Just one more high.
I feel like shit. Withdrawals. I need the hit. I need the high.
I look like shit. I just throw on more eyeliner and another hat on my greasy head. I’ll be fine. The bags underneath my eyes are from my lack of sleep. I’ll be fine.
I only buy enough for one more night. That’s it. I’m done.
See, I can quit whenever I want. I’m not an addict. I’ll take it easy. I’ll show them.
One more high. One more stupor. Just one more time that I don’t have to think about much. Just the blood flowing through my veins. The beat of my heart. The erratic breathing.
They think I’ll be back for more tomorrow.
I’m done. I’m not an addict. I can quit.
I am quitting.
I have to show them.
I’ll prove it to them. Or die trying.
I somehow dial him.
Yo, Valo, I’m done. You’re wrong. I’m not an addict. I can quit. I am quitting.
You and Missy were wrong, you know. I don’t need rehab.
He doesn’t believe me. Just thinks I’m speaking gibberish while in another stupor.
He’ll come and investigate soon. He always does. People don’t know that he’s a curious person. If curiosity killed the cat, Valo is one dead pussy.
I wake up this morning more groggy than I’ve ever been in my life. Every muscle in my body aches and I don’t even to attempt to move, because I know it will be twenty billion times worse.
My head is pounding and I feel like I’m going to puke everywhere, despite being hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life. It physically hurts to open my eyelids and see the sun shining on me and it hurts even more to blink.
There’s a knock on the door and I try to yell that the door’s open and to come in, but no words come out. My throat is on fire. I need water.
Whoever was at the door comes on in anyway, so there could be a mass-murdering psycho in my house and I’d never know. Rad. I’m pretty sure if I had to choose between death and this withdrawal, I’d take death any day.
It doesn’t take long to find out who walked in. I can feel them sit down at the other end of the couch where my feet are.
“Hello, Brandon,”
It’s Ville. Of course. Always the curious creature.
I try to say anything, but all that comes out is a horrible low groan which I can feel rumble through my body.
The springs of the couch decompress as he gets up.
Centuries later, I feel something cold being poured all over my body. It’s like I’m being stabbed with thousands of icicles. It burns like fire, yet I know it’s cold and it hurts and feels so good at the same time. My mouth automatically opens in a scream that never comes. It hurts to swallow, like that time I had strep throat when I was eleven, but I feel so much better afterward.
“Swallow these.”
I barely see a few white pills go from his hand onto my tongue before I swallow them down with another gulp of water.
“Sit up, I’ll make you some breakfast.”
He leaves the room again as I attempt to sit up. It’s like I can feel every nerve sparking, every muscle being set on fire, every bone cracking and grinding into powder. It’s the exact opposite of how I’ve felt in the past few years. I usually feel these things, but it’s such a high that it’s a rush to do anything. Now I just want to lay here and wait for the Grim Reaper to show up.
The smell of food makes me want to vomit. But I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life.
There’s a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me. I try a bite of toast. It’s like chewing on a shingle. Nothing tastes right. It hurts to even bite down or chew.
I can’t do it. No way is all of this food getting into my system. I want to puke just thinking about all of that food working its way into my belly.
I try a bite of scrambled eggs. It’s softer to chew and goes down a little easier, but I can taste the tiny about of grease that the bacon has given them on the plate and I want to just vomit everywhere.
But that would mean getting up. And I am not getting up.
I just want to fall asleep forever. Sleep everything off, wake up a few days later and maybe I’ll be normal again.
“Don’t even think about falling asleep again.”
It’s like he can read minds.
“You’re showing me where everything is and it’s getting dumped. All of it. Drugs, booze, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all going.”
I open my mouth and somehow I manage to say, “It’s gone.”
“All of it? There’s nothing left in the house?”
I nod, somehow, as I feel my disks slide against one another, my spine cracking slightly.
“You know, she told me not to come. She said you were a lost cause. But I believe in you. If you get help, you can be the man I loved so long ago.”
I feel the anger bubbling up inside of me like a bad chemical reaction. It’s the anger which gives me the strength to spit the words at him, “I don’t need help. Stop trying to send me away.”
He shakes his head. It makes me dizzy just watching him.
“You need help. You’re obviously not okay if this keeps happening. You should see the signs. I know I can see them in you. I was an addict, Bam, I can see it in you as well. You say you don’t need help, but I know you do. I love you, I can’t stand to see you hurt yourself like this any longer.”
I knew he wouldn’t believe me. No one ever does. I know how to control this addiction. It’s over now.
I don’t want to do this to myself anymore. I want to regain normality.
He’s going to save me. I know he is. Because he knows what this feels like. He knows how bad this withdrawal is. He can help me through this.
Either he’s going to help me, or I’m going to die trying to beat this.
Let’s see which it is.