Hallucinate, My Love (Patrick, Miriam)
When Patrick awoke the next morning, it took several moments for him to remember the horror of yesterday. When he did, he immediately curled up on his bed, but he didn't have long to be panicked. The door to his cell swung open and the woman in the black hood entered, followed by two others.
No one said a word.
Patrick shrank away from the three robed figures that separated himself from the door. They were backlit, which made them seem bigger somehow. Patrick didn't like it. He coughed once, just to break the silence and somehow it seemed to be the sign the hoodies were waiting for.
"Patrick Finnegan, we would like to start your purification today, but it is necessary for your system to be free of any traces of alcohol."
Patrick didn't quite know what that meant, but it didn't sound like it was going to be pleasant. He had no way of knowing it would actually be the best three days he would spend in this underground hell hole, and that was saying something. "Uhm...alright?"
"You will spend three days in your cell and at the end of those three days, your situation will be assessed. If at that time, you are ready for your purification, it will begin. You will be punished for the sin of gluttony, and your punishment shall be a four-day fast, after which you will beg God's forgiveness for what you have done."
Patrick had no idea what to reply to a statement like that, so he just nodded, feeling more overwhelmed than he ever had in his life. The sheer absurdity of the situation made him want to laugh, but there were people in robes telling him what he could and couldn't do and where he could and couldn't go and that wasn't at all funny.
"You will worship with an appointed spiritual counsellor each day, and they will help you on the path to righteousness."
"Uhm...great. Yay, God," Patrick said and then he felt idiotic. Yay, God? They were a cult, not a fundie children's telly programme. "Heh..."
Then the three of them were backing away from him. The door was closing and Patrick felt his heart pound against his chest at the very visual of freedom being taken away. He leaned his head back against the wall hard; harder than he meant to and he let out a sigh.
The next three days were harder than he thought they would be. Patrick hadn't gone a single day without a drink in months and before that he had never really had much to drink at all. He didn't know what it felt like to go through alcohol withdrawal. After he started drinking, he had always self-medicated with more alcohol when he felt ill, and now there was no alcohol to be had anywhere. The shaking started slowly, and Patrick put that down to being held in an underground bunker by creepy people in black robes. When he broke out in a sweat, he incorrectly assumed that it was because of improper airflow. The headache was attributed to the heat that wasn't really there.
The symptoms worsened and Patrick had no way to understand what was happening to him. He stretched out on his cot, moaning in feverish misery as his stomach cramped and his body cried out for the alcohol it craved.
Delirium followed and he remembered very little of those few days, at least not clearly. He was given water and food, but he vomited every single bit of it back up. His body shook as if it wouldn't ever stop, and then there was the hallucinations.
Patrick would open his eyes and he would be in his home in Dublin with his wife. She would be standing over him or in bed next to him and everything would be fine. Their daughters would play or sit beside him and he would close his eyes and listen to them sing. And then he would see their bodies, bloody and mangled, after they had been pulled from what had remained of the car after it had been hit by a trucker who wasn't looking. They would stand silently, pale and haunting, watching him writhe and sweat and cry.
Eventually his symptoms gave way to seizures and he was given anti-convulsants and anti-psychotics and then the shaking and the sickness was worse because there were no visions of his family to comfort him. He was given other medication and he took it all obediently, hoping that it would end his suffering though the actual intent of the pills was to make sure the withdrawal didn't kill him. The Templar had to save his soul first.
In the end, it took longer than three days before Patrick came out of his withdrawal-induced stupor. He still wanted a drink, but he managed to keep food down. His body had stopped shaking so badly. He wasn't adrift in a fog of memories and nothingness.
He had been through almost a week of torture and he had no way of understanding that the real torture had yet to begin.
No one said a word.
Patrick shrank away from the three robed figures that separated himself from the door. They were backlit, which made them seem bigger somehow. Patrick didn't like it. He coughed once, just to break the silence and somehow it seemed to be the sign the hoodies were waiting for.
"Patrick Finnegan, we would like to start your purification today, but it is necessary for your system to be free of any traces of alcohol."
Patrick didn't quite know what that meant, but it didn't sound like it was going to be pleasant. He had no way of knowing it would actually be the best three days he would spend in this underground hell hole, and that was saying something. "Uhm...alright?"
"You will spend three days in your cell and at the end of those three days, your situation will be assessed. If at that time, you are ready for your purification, it will begin. You will be punished for the sin of gluttony, and your punishment shall be a four-day fast, after which you will beg God's forgiveness for what you have done."
Patrick had no idea what to reply to a statement like that, so he just nodded, feeling more overwhelmed than he ever had in his life. The sheer absurdity of the situation made him want to laugh, but there were people in robes telling him what he could and couldn't do and where he could and couldn't go and that wasn't at all funny.
"You will worship with an appointed spiritual counsellor each day, and they will help you on the path to righteousness."
"Uhm...great. Yay, God," Patrick said and then he felt idiotic. Yay, God? They were a cult, not a fundie children's telly programme. "Heh..."
Then the three of them were backing away from him. The door was closing and Patrick felt his heart pound against his chest at the very visual of freedom being taken away. He leaned his head back against the wall hard; harder than he meant to and he let out a sigh.
The next three days were harder than he thought they would be. Patrick hadn't gone a single day without a drink in months and before that he had never really had much to drink at all. He didn't know what it felt like to go through alcohol withdrawal. After he started drinking, he had always self-medicated with more alcohol when he felt ill, and now there was no alcohol to be had anywhere. The shaking started slowly, and Patrick put that down to being held in an underground bunker by creepy people in black robes. When he broke out in a sweat, he incorrectly assumed that it was because of improper airflow. The headache was attributed to the heat that wasn't really there.
The symptoms worsened and Patrick had no way to understand what was happening to him. He stretched out on his cot, moaning in feverish misery as his stomach cramped and his body cried out for the alcohol it craved.
Delirium followed and he remembered very little of those few days, at least not clearly. He was given water and food, but he vomited every single bit of it back up. His body shook as if it wouldn't ever stop, and then there was the hallucinations.
Patrick would open his eyes and he would be in his home in Dublin with his wife. She would be standing over him or in bed next to him and everything would be fine. Their daughters would play or sit beside him and he would close his eyes and listen to them sing. And then he would see their bodies, bloody and mangled, after they had been pulled from what had remained of the car after it had been hit by a trucker who wasn't looking. They would stand silently, pale and haunting, watching him writhe and sweat and cry.
Eventually his symptoms gave way to seizures and he was given anti-convulsants and anti-psychotics and then the shaking and the sickness was worse because there were no visions of his family to comfort him. He was given other medication and he took it all obediently, hoping that it would end his suffering though the actual intent of the pills was to make sure the withdrawal didn't kill him. The Templar had to save his soul first.
In the end, it took longer than three days before Patrick came out of his withdrawal-induced stupor. He still wanted a drink, but he managed to keep food down. His body had stopped shaking so badly. He wasn't adrift in a fog of memories and nothingness.
He had been through almost a week of torture and he had no way of understanding that the real torture had yet to begin.