[Rehab] - avantgarde_muse - 1.3.2 - Day One, Day One (Start Over Again)
"Get plenty of calcium." ~Baz Luhrmann (The Sunscreen Song)
"Fucking milk," he muttered under his breath. Noah sat at one of the tables in the rec room, his chin resting on his folded hands against the table. He was staring forward into a clear plastic cup of milk. Not even a glass of milk. A fucking plastic cup. He couldn't exactly cut his wrists with the plastic cup. Unless he was serious enough about it, he mused to himself.
It was almost nine o'clock, at the end of his first full day, and Noah didn't want any fucking milk. He wanted a glass of Jack Daniels. He wanted to lay back on his couch, holding the cool glass and staring into the comforting amber liquid.
He wanted to hold the glass under his nose and breathe in the wonderful scent of the alcohol. Tip it into his mouth and feel the warm burn down the back of his throat. The warmth going all the way from his throat, down to his stomach, and through his veins. He wanted the blurriness that came with it. That perfect place where his eyes could hardly stay open, his head couldn't hold itself up...and nothing hurt. The constant noise in his head...gone.
Truth was, going to work aside, Noah hadn't been too sober over the past few days. Since the phone call with Michaela.
At work, he could avoid her. He could keep himself busy with patients and paperwork. At home, he had alcohol. But there...sitting at that table...he had milk. And milk didn't take away her voice in his head. It didn't dull the pain of knowing he had let her down, knowing he had thrown away something...that could have been good.
Milk didn't make him forget the feeling of holding her while he slept, and how badly he wanted that again. It didn't let him push away the now memory of how she tasted, and the way her mouth felt against his. The goddamn milk didn't let him shove her from his thoughts.
Milk didn't help silence the words his sisters and friends had brought to him at their little intervention meeting. The way his sisters looked at him. Like he was damaged and sick.
And milk didn't cover up all the painful memories that ached his heart across the years. The things he couldn't let go of.
It was all there, circling around his head like a racetrack. It was loud. All of the thoughts and images throbbing in his mind. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to make it go away.
His eyes closed and he buried his face against the table. How did they expect him to do anything of this?
His hand smacked the plastic cup of milk over in his anger, and he sat there. Waiting for the madness in his head to quiet down, feeling the milk slide across the table, pool around his hands, and drip into his lap. He didn't care. Milk didn't do a fucking thing for him.
498
"Fucking milk," he muttered under his breath. Noah sat at one of the tables in the rec room, his chin resting on his folded hands against the table. He was staring forward into a clear plastic cup of milk. Not even a glass of milk. A fucking plastic cup. He couldn't exactly cut his wrists with the plastic cup. Unless he was serious enough about it, he mused to himself.
It was almost nine o'clock, at the end of his first full day, and Noah didn't want any fucking milk. He wanted a glass of Jack Daniels. He wanted to lay back on his couch, holding the cool glass and staring into the comforting amber liquid.
He wanted to hold the glass under his nose and breathe in the wonderful scent of the alcohol. Tip it into his mouth and feel the warm burn down the back of his throat. The warmth going all the way from his throat, down to his stomach, and through his veins. He wanted the blurriness that came with it. That perfect place where his eyes could hardly stay open, his head couldn't hold itself up...and nothing hurt. The constant noise in his head...gone.
Truth was, going to work aside, Noah hadn't been too sober over the past few days. Since the phone call with Michaela.
At work, he could avoid her. He could keep himself busy with patients and paperwork. At home, he had alcohol. But there...sitting at that table...he had milk. And milk didn't take away her voice in his head. It didn't dull the pain of knowing he had let her down, knowing he had thrown away something...that could have been good.
Milk didn't make him forget the feeling of holding her while he slept, and how badly he wanted that again. It didn't let him push away the now memory of how she tasted, and the way her mouth felt against his. The goddamn milk didn't let him shove her from his thoughts.
Milk didn't help silence the words his sisters and friends had brought to him at their little intervention meeting. The way his sisters looked at him. Like he was damaged and sick.
And milk didn't cover up all the painful memories that ached his heart across the years. The things he couldn't let go of.
It was all there, circling around his head like a racetrack. It was loud. All of the thoughts and images throbbing in his mind. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to make it go away.
His eyes closed and he buried his face against the table. How did they expect him to do anything of this?
His hand smacked the plastic cup of milk over in his anger, and he sat there. Waiting for the madness in his head to quiet down, feeling the milk slide across the table, pool around his hands, and drip into his lap. He didn't care. Milk didn't do a fucking thing for him.
498