Meanwhile, Fred woke earlier than usual.
His body protested the moment he opened his eyes....every muscle aching, every nerve screaming as though it had been bruised from the inside out. Still, he forced himself upright, jaw clenched as he reached for the small bottle of pills on his bedside table. The drug the doctor had prescribed. Not the real one. Not Damien's.
At least this will hold me together until then, he thought grimly.
He swallowed the pill dry, barely reacting to the bitterness scraping down his throat. Pain flared briefly, then dulled...never gone, just pushed aside. That was fine. He didn't need comfort. He needed control.
He then dragged himself into the bathroom, washed up, and dressed slowly, carefully, as if any wrong movement might shatter him. By the time he was done, his reflection stared back at him with forced steadiness, eyes shadowed, lips pressed into a thin, determined line.
Am I really about to do the right thing?
The thought slipped in uninvited.
