Prison Break > Life
New Prison Break fic! One-Shot with my Sara+Morphine obsessed at its fullest.
Title: The Cost of Impatience
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Drug Use
Characters: Sara
Summary: The night of the OD. Enough said.
The Cost of Impatience
Sara walked into her apartment seething with fury, one specific goal in mind. It was easier to concentrate on her goal than to think about what led her to her anger. With her goal in mind, she remained in control and focused on the task. She entered her kitchen and immediately poured herself a double scotch on the rocks. She’d always known it wasn’t smart to keep alcohol in her apartment for this very reason, but she just couldn’t help herself. It was part of her elaborate subconscious struggle for control over the alcoholism. Having the alcohol there, but not drinking it - she loved the feeling of absolute power it gave her. Being able to stare at the bottle, but not touch it was such a twisted, wonderful feeling that she just couldn’t let go of. She’d torture herself often, just staring at the bottle, but she’d never relinquish the control by taking a drink. She’d just stare at it, motionlessly, for minutes upon minutes. Just staring.
But tonight that would be no staring.
Tonight would be for drinking.
She downed the alcohol easily, enjoying the familiar burn in her throat as the drink raced down it. Sara closed her eyes, somewhat appeased.
But it wasn’t enough - the pain was still too much, and she was starting to lose control. Michael, her father, the lies, the deception - it was all too much.
Sara made herself another double scotch. Sipping it, she stared at her purse which remained by the door. Its contents weren’t visible from the angle she was at, but in her mind she could see them perfectly. They tormented every aspect of her, though she couldn’t see them - the bottle of morphine, the needle, and the rubber tourniquet. Sara downed the rest of her drink.
As the alcohol took effect, she tried her best at not thinking about what had gone on that day, but she failed miserably, for Michael’s look of desperation couldn’t be gone from her mind as he pleaded for her to make a ‘mistake’ and leave the door unlocked.
Yes, it was definitely a mistake.
Sara slammed her fist angrily into the table and shakily poured herself another drink, amber liquid spilling over the edges of the glass in her trembling hands. He let the drink burn a path down her throat in horrible, long, wonderful gulps, but it didn’t do anything anymore.
Alcohol had never been enough.
And so she grabbed her drugs and sat them violently on the coffee table, just barely keeping them from breaking. She stared at them for several moments before slamming her fist into the wall, creating a dent there and dull thud in her fist.
Sara glanced over at the television and turned it on impulsively, wondering if the prison boys would be on the news yet. But instead, she listens briefly as a newscaster reveals that Reynolds and her father, Governor Frank Tancredi, were the favorites to win in the upcoming election.
She could have broken the TV then in blind fury.
Instead, she turned it off quickly and reached for the morphine. Sara didn’t pay much attention to the measurement, too impatient. All she knew was that she needed the morphine in her system, and she needed it there immediately. She needed the control back in her life.
She let her head fall back in a temporary ecstasy after injection, but as everything started growing hazy, and the room began spinning around her a few moments later, she realized she may just die for her impatience.
Fin.
Title: The Cost of Impatience
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Drug Use
Characters: Sara
Summary: The night of the OD. Enough said.
The Cost of Impatience
Sara walked into her apartment seething with fury, one specific goal in mind. It was easier to concentrate on her goal than to think about what led her to her anger. With her goal in mind, she remained in control and focused on the task. She entered her kitchen and immediately poured herself a double scotch on the rocks. She’d always known it wasn’t smart to keep alcohol in her apartment for this very reason, but she just couldn’t help herself. It was part of her elaborate subconscious struggle for control over the alcoholism. Having the alcohol there, but not drinking it - she loved the feeling of absolute power it gave her. Being able to stare at the bottle, but not touch it was such a twisted, wonderful feeling that she just couldn’t let go of. She’d torture herself often, just staring at the bottle, but she’d never relinquish the control by taking a drink. She’d just stare at it, motionlessly, for minutes upon minutes. Just staring.
But tonight that would be no staring.
Tonight would be for drinking.
She downed the alcohol easily, enjoying the familiar burn in her throat as the drink raced down it. Sara closed her eyes, somewhat appeased.
But it wasn’t enough - the pain was still too much, and she was starting to lose control. Michael, her father, the lies, the deception - it was all too much.
Sara made herself another double scotch. Sipping it, she stared at her purse which remained by the door. Its contents weren’t visible from the angle she was at, but in her mind she could see them perfectly. They tormented every aspect of her, though she couldn’t see them - the bottle of morphine, the needle, and the rubber tourniquet. Sara downed the rest of her drink.
As the alcohol took effect, she tried her best at not thinking about what had gone on that day, but she failed miserably, for Michael’s look of desperation couldn’t be gone from her mind as he pleaded for her to make a ‘mistake’ and leave the door unlocked.
Yes, it was definitely a mistake.
Sara slammed her fist angrily into the table and shakily poured herself another drink, amber liquid spilling over the edges of the glass in her trembling hands. He let the drink burn a path down her throat in horrible, long, wonderful gulps, but it didn’t do anything anymore.
Alcohol had never been enough.
And so she grabbed her drugs and sat them violently on the coffee table, just barely keeping them from breaking. She stared at them for several moments before slamming her fist into the wall, creating a dent there and dull thud in her fist.
Sara glanced over at the television and turned it on impulsively, wondering if the prison boys would be on the news yet. But instead, she listens briefly as a newscaster reveals that Reynolds and her father, Governor Frank Tancredi, were the favorites to win in the upcoming election.
She could have broken the TV then in blind fury.
Instead, she turned it off quickly and reached for the morphine. Sara didn’t pay much attention to the measurement, too impatient. All she knew was that she needed the morphine in her system, and she needed it there immediately. She needed the control back in her life.
She let her head fall back in a temporary ecstasy after injection, but as everything started growing hazy, and the room began spinning around her a few moments later, she realized she may just die for her impatience.
Fin.