Chapter Text
The walls in his not-prison squeezed a little too tightly. It worsened Valentino’s constant headache, just as much as the saccharine pills and liquids they fed him.
He was counting down the hours until they gave him another dose of Methadone.
“We’re trying to wean you off. The withdrawal effects will be difficult to manage, especially with the severity of your case, but we will give you medication to help. Do not worry, we’re here for a reason. Remember, drug addiction is not a failure on your part, but a disease of the mind.”
Disease of the mind.
Valentino definitely felt sick, at least.
He wanted to hurl and throw up everything he has ever consumed in his life onto the stupid padded walls of his glorified prison cell. His body ached and itched and spasmed. He was so fucking restless. He needed it, he needed the powder and needle, if he could just leave and get a hit then he’d be fine and everything would go back to normal. He would be normal again.
His hands shook.
The room was too cold and too hot. Goosebumps rose on his skin, little traitorous fuckers, as sweat soaked into the sheets.
Sleep evaded him, no matter how fast he ran. Everything in his room was annoyingly sterile white and impersonal. The lights outside didn’t ever turn off. There were security cameras monitoring him 24/7, there were stupid posters giving him instructions and passive-aggressive warnings. All objects were rounded and soft. For fuck’s sake, the first few days he was fed literal baby food, supervised by tired nurses so he didn’t commit ‘self-inflicted harm’.
Was this supposed to make him not want to kill himself? He felt like a fucking animal in a zoo, a charity case, something pitiful to sigh and point at.
Valentino screamed into his anti-suffocation pillow and contemplated ways to die. Tears rolled down his face, foreign. The cat poster looked back at him judgmentally, not-so-gently reminding him that he was loved.
Sleep never came, of course, but in that brief comfort of darkness, he could almost convince himself that everything was fine.
It was morning, now. He watched the sun languidly rise from the small window next to his bed. He wanted it to rise faster, he wanted it to leave, he wanted it to burn up and explode.
A knock at the door shook him out of his daze. Barely a second later, and a nurse entered. She didn’t even flinch when Valentino told her to fuck off.
Anger flooded his body. How dare she intrude into his life? He wanted to lash out and hit her, maybe gouge his own eyes out while he was at it—he didn’t want to do this shit, why the fuck won’t they just let him die?
And yet, Valentino didn’t do anything. He was too fucking tired. So instead he sat up on the bed and stared blankly at the wall like the pathetic piece of shit he was.
The nurse walked over. Her shoes tapped sharply against the floor.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Kelly; her hair was brown and tied in a sharp bun, face wrinkled and eyes tired. Nevertheless, she handed him a plastic cup filled with liquid, Methadone, and a glass of water. Valentino drank the medicine as she watched, trying not to gag. It tasted overly sweet and artificial. He hated it. He needed it.
“Good morning, Valentino. How was your sleep?”
“Terrible.” He muttered, hands trembling.
“Melatonin not working?”
Valentino didn’t respond, instead choosing to stare listlessly at the bedsheets. His bare nails dug vainly into hospital scrubs.
‘Mrs. Kelly’ sighed. What a stupid name.
“Look at me, please.” Her voice was authoritative—Valentino looked up against his own will. It was terribly hard to maintain eye-contact, especially when his vision was blurry and everything seemed to pulse.
She was staring at him, too close for comfort. Checking his pupils, Valentino could only guess. She said something to herself and wrote nonsense down on a notepad.
“Hmm. Since melatonin didn’t help much, we’ll have a doctor check up with you. Insomnia can be very difficult to deal with. The doctor may give you some Trazadone tonight, if necessary. A test run.”
“Okay.” he said blankly. The words meant nothing to him. White walls, the ceiling, everything shrank and turned on itself. Methadone took so long to work, as it’s oral; he wished they just injected him with it instead. Then the relief would be instant. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he could even pretend it was heroin.
Mrs. Kelly uttered some words that he didn’t register fully, something like, “Breakfast” and “More medication”, and then got up to leave. The click of shoes on tile.
Valentino existed without company for a blissful two minutes, before Mrs. Kelly came back with a tray of food and pills.
Valentino stared down at the offending food. Scrambled eggs, a piece of toast, orange slices, a glass of milk. Everything looked horrible, wrong, gross. The smell alone hurt his head.
“Take your medication, and then eat.”
Valentino scrunched up his nose, and then took the multitude of pills robotically—ibuprofen, antidepressants, anti-nausea tablets, whatever. He was compliant.
Mrs. Kelly continued to look at him expectantly.
“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” he bit out. He didn’t touch the food, fork uselessly stabbing against plastic.
“Nope, I’m staying with you until you finish your breakfast. Once you’re assessed as stable, you will have meals in the cafeteria with everyone else.” Mrs. Kelly said matter-of-factly, hands crossed neatly on her lap. “The scrambled eggs are good.”
Fuck you.
Valentino turned away. “I’m not hungry.” He wasn’t lying. He’s always had a small appetite, and withdrawal certainly didn’t help.
His stomach growls. Betrayal from his own body.
Mrs. Kelly raises an eyebrow— that bitch.
“I suggest you eat, even a little.” She looks down at her watch. “You have a one-on-one therapy session in 7 minutes.”
Her voice echoed around the bare room.
Therapy. Valentino’s eye twitched, a new wave of nausea hitting him full force. He was tempted to vomit all over the tray and the floor and maybe her smug face while he was at it just to get out of this stupid place.
Fuck.
He pushed the bile down. If he vomited, then he’d be sent back to the ICU.
In seven minutes of awkward silence Valentino managed to eat two orange slices and a single bite of extremely stale toast. Each chew made his head hurt. The toast was far too oily and hard, the oranges too sour. The stench of scrambled eggs was overpowering.
When will the fucking medicine work?!
Mrs. Kelly’s face was plain and emotionless when Valentino pushed the barely-touched food tray into her hands and declared he was done.
She pursed her lips and took the tray, emptying some of the trash into a garbage can.
“Alright, Valentino. Follow me. We’re going to go to the 5th floor for your therapy session.”
Mrs. Kelly exited the room, beckoning him to follow. He trudged after her even though it took every inch of will in his system to do so. Each limb was filled with lead, heavy.
They traveled together down never-ending hallways that seemed to swallow him whole. Somewhere along the line she discarded the tray. Time ticked slower. Every step he took felt like a monumental effort.
It was only during an excruciating silent elevator ride when the Methadone finally felt noticeable.
It was slow and sudden all the same: in one moment, he was tired and wrong. Another, when the liquid dissolved in his stomach, got absorbed by his bloodstream, and flowed into his brain, binding to opioid receptors— and all at once, he felt normal again. His arms no longer ached; the pounding in his head faded away.
Anxiety dripped off him and pooled into the ground. His mind was finally silent, worry gone.
Valentino felt human again, or at least the closest he's been since his last hit.
The cravings were still there, of course, lingering under every thought, but at least he didn’t feel like the walking dead.
Maybe everything was bearable after all.
Whether Mrs. Kelly noticed the change or not, she didn't say anything. The elevator rumbled and filled the silence with its insistent mechanical clamor.
“Come along.” Mrs. Kelly said sharply when the elevator, after taking its sweet time, finally arrived at the fifth floor. Valentino nodded and they walked out in unison.
He’s never been to this floor before. Everything was vastly more colorful, furniture playful, murals on the wall. The lighting was warm for once, unlike the other floors that were adorned with a sterile, cold, hospital quality.
It was… nice.
Maybe it was just the methadone speaking.
Valentino ogled at everything a little too much, soaking up all the new visual information. He’s been so sensory deprived the last couple of days that every single tiny detail fired off his dopamine receptors.
Along the way Mrs. Kelly greeted a couple of her nurse friends, he guessed. He couldn’t help but notice how taller he was compared to everyone in this psych-ward-hospital-rehab-whatever. Then again, Valentino was an extraordinary 6 feet 5 inches. It was a once in a blue moon experience to find someone not shorter than him.
His height was one thing that he’s always been slightly insecure about. Being so tall meant he was always noticeable. It made him want to collapse into himself and fade away.
He really wished he was back at home, where no one could see him.
Then again, home was the exact reason he ended up here anyways.
Finally, FINALLY, they reached the end of their journey— a wooden door with a sign that read, “Counseling. Room #523”
“Here’s where you will have your daily therapy sessions. It’s always going to be from 9:15 to 9:45, Tuesdays and Fridays." Mrs. Kelly said simply, gesturing at the door. “Other days you’ll go to group counseling sessions or participate in recreational activities. I’ll pick you up and take you back to your room when your session is finished.”
Mrs. Kelly gave him one last look, taking his hand and squeezing. “Goodbye, Valentino.”
Valentino stood there blankly, brain sluggish. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the hallway when he finally had enough of a mind to realize he didn’t want her to leave him alone here in this unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar person and a stupid therapy session—
“W-wait! Don’t go—” Valentino yelled, in vain. That bitch was already gone and off to nowhere, probably eager to be free from a mentally unstable drug addict.
Valentino breathed in once, and then out.
Fuck her.
Fuck everyone here.
He dug his fingers into his arms, trying to control his erratic heart rate.
Of course she’d leave him the first chance she got. Everyone hated him. He was insufferable.
Maybe he should just jump out of a window right now. He leaned against the stupid ‘Counseling’ door, closing his eyes. It’s not like anyone would miss him anyway.
In the back of his mind, Valentino registered footsteps approaching the door, but thinking was such a bother…
He would kill for a hit, just a single injection would make him feel a thousand times better. He could almost sense the high, that feeling of euphoria and lightnes—
And then Valentino was falling, limbs scrambling for purchase as the door he was leaning against was yanked open. One moment there was support, the next there was nothing—just empty space, body at total mercy of gravity— hopefully he cracked his skull open and died—
“Woah, woah, careful there!”
Instead of hard wood, Valentino fell against something warm and very much not the floor. Firm hands caught his back and held him upright.
What the fuck?
“Sorry about that. Don’t want to give you a concussion!”
Valentino whipped around, staring at the man before him. Was this his therapist? Could he like. Get his hands off him?
“Stop touching me.” Valentino whispered, eyes shot, body trembling. From shock? Fear? He really wasn’t sure.
The man immediately dropped his grip. Fuck, his body hurt from where that his hands had been.
Valentino squinted. The man, probably middle-aged by the look of the white streak on his dark hair, had very unsettling eyes. One blue, one green. Making eye-contact made his head throb.
He’s never seen someone with mismatched eyes before, let alone someone with colors that bright.
“My apologies.” The man laughed, wiping his hands off on his pants. Fucking rude. “What’s your name?”
His voice was smooth and strong. The sound radiated down into Valentino’s bones and curled into the nooks of his brain. He hated it.
He wanted to run, he wanted to punch the smile out of his estúpido face, he wanted to crawl into his own ribcage and never come out.
Instead, Valentino stared at the ground, refusing to look at those eyes. He was very sure this man knew his name already.
“Valentino Rivera.” He spit out.
The man laughed again. Valentino wanted to choke him.
“Well, good morning, Valentino Rivera. Nice to meet you. I’m your therapist, Mr. Whittman.”
Valentino didn’t have much time to mull over what just happened, before he was being ushered inside, guided by a hand on his lower back. Touch cold.
His ‘therapist’ smiled, gaze firm. He looked off-putting—his navy suit a little too sharp, body too rigid.
Also, who wore a whole ass suit to a therapy session?
Certainly not Valentino. He was dressed in a hospital gown, for fuck’s sake. Whatever dignity he had had fallen off a cliff long ago.
“Take a seat,” that smooth voice said again, now off to somewhere else.
Valentino huffed, crossing his arms, and decided to choose the seat farthest away from the man: a plush red loveseat sofa. He sprawled against the fabric, relishing in the comfortable, probably very expensive cushions.
He took in his surroundings. The room seemed larger on the inside; an endless window consumed a whole wall. Books lined the corners of the space. The sun acted as the main light source, invading with its bright, annoying rays. Furnishing the room were an assortment of seating; bean bags, sofas, etc.
Across from him was a table with a chair, where Valentino guessed the other man was supposed to sit. There were plenty of plants, too, but not many personal decorations. The room felt overwhelmingly full and empty at the same time.
Mr. Whittman hummed to himself, standing in a corner—back turned, attending a coffee machine.
Valentino sighed, sinking into the sofa. Whatever.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Mr. Whittman’s voice traveled across the room. Valentino shifted around in his seat, restless, picking at the skin next to his nails.
They cut them when he was admitted…
“...Just water.” Valentino said, faint and shaky. Maybe a tequila, too. And a bag of cocaine while he was at it.
Mr. Whittman nodded, and a couple moments later approached him with a glass of cold water. Valentino accepted it, grateful, and set it down on the table. Mr. Whittman took the seat across from him.
A beat passed. Nobody spoke.
And then,
“How are you feeling, Valentino?”
Valentino stilled.
The room suddenly felt vastly smaller. It was just him, and this… stranger. He needed to leave, he needed to run away and hide in his bed, he needed a hit or at least a drink.
Valentino chose the simplest answer, which was a shrug. Play aloof.
Mr. Whittman looked down at some papers. Probably explaining away every bit of detail about Valentino.
He detested how much this stranger knew about him, and how the knowledge was not mutual. He hated power imbalance, it always made him anxious.
“How do you feel,” Mr. Whittman pressed. “On a scale of one to ten. One being the worst you’ve ever felt, ten being awesome, higher than god himself.”
Fuck. Even Valentino himself wasn’t quite sure. Physically, he felt better than before, but still slightly aching. The power of drugs, medicinal or recreational, sure did wonders. Mentally, well, anti-depressants did quiet the noise in his mind, altering his brain chemistry to the point he couldn’t care that much about anything. He felt at peace with himself, even though his mind was now extraordinarily empty.
“Uhm, six out of ten?” The doctors did say he was showing signs of improvement.
“Great to see it.” Mr. Whittman said, eyes crinkling. “I know you might feel a little out of place here. Are you adjusting well to the new environment?”
No. His room was too white and rigid and uncomfortable and tight. He hated everyone here. He was trapped, and he desired freedom, or another hit, or whatever came first—
Lie.
“Yes.”
Freaky-eyes studied him, eyes boring into Valentino’s soul. The strong gaze pulled at the fabric of his being. Static swarmed his mind, trickling around in a way that made gravity feel heavier.
Time stretched thin.
Mr. Whittman clicked his tongue, breaking the silence. He wrote something down on his notepad, pen scratching against paper.
“Don’t lie to me, Valentino.”
He flinched. What was that fucker playing at?
He wasn’t even lying, just… toying with the truth. Wasn’t the point of therapy to make him feel safe and ‘accepted’?
Danger.
Danger.
Run away.
Lash out.
Fight.
“I’m not lying… What do you want me to say?” Valentino cried, glaring at the ground, knee bouncing erratically. He pulled at his prison uniform. “Oh this place is so amazing? I hate it here and want to burn it to the ground? What do you want?” He buried his face into a pillow.
Fingers dug into his thighs, hopefully leaving red marks under the clothes.
Mr. Whittman smiled genuinely, as if he wanted, almost expected the outlash. He leaned in, invading Valentino’s privacy, even though a whole table separated them.
Fuck him fuck everyone here fuck himself…
“Now we’re getting somewhere. There’s no use lying to ourselves, is there?” Mr. Whittman said slowly, each syllable accentuated and patronizingly cheerful. “Trust me, Valentino. I want the best for you.”
Heat crawled up the back of Valentino’s neck. His eyes were stinging, jaws locked, teeth grinded together, hands digging into the sofa and feet planted into the ground.
Maybe if he blamed it on the withdrawal—said it was making him lose his sanity, use those fake tears— he could get away with punching that motherfucker square in the nose. Ruin that pretty face, break the skin and tear out those hypnotizing eyes.
Instead, Valentino wiped his face and took a sip of water, relishing in the burn of the liquid cascading down his throat.
“I want you to tell me, Valentino. Be honest.”
A pause.
“Do you ever wish you were dead?”
He choked, water spraying out— the droplets splattered on the ground. Pathetic.
Valentino’s brown eyes met bright blue and green. Mr. Whittman’s face was plain, unreadable, clinical. A little tired, even.
This was so stupid. Before he could help it, a laugh slipped out. Insanity– the joy of a broken man–filled the room with its sharp sound.
Mr. Whittman still didn’t say anything.
Valentino took a breath in, face maniac.
“Fuck you!”
This was all pointless.
“You’re asking if I want to kill myself? Dios mío, what do you think, bitch?— Hah! Why else would I be here? Yes, of course I think of killing myself, of course I wish I was dead, all the fucking time! Is that what you want?! ‘Honesty?’”
Valentino exhaled sharply, tears rising now–cold, trickling down his face—
“Go, Go on, write it in your stupid fucking notes, tell them I’m mentally unstable and deranged–, isn’t that your job?!? Tell them so they’ll give me more fucking pills and antidepressants— drug me up so I’m all compliant and happy and numb… ”
He continued to laugh, high-pitched and shrill. Static emptied its insides.
And Mr. Whittman was still there, patient, watching the outburst in mild interest.
A tissue box was shoved in his direction. Valentino took it, half grateful and half still very much angry.
“Are you done?”
He wanted to wring that stupid smile off his stupid face—
No, of course he wasn’t done. He had so much to say and to pull out of his heart but it scared and hurt him to lay it bare…
Mr. Whittman seemed to take the silence as a yes. He leaned back in his chair, hands drumming against the table, clearly thinking of things beyond Valentino’s comprehension.
“I’m glad to hear your side of the matter.” He said simply, after a while. “I cannot imagine how difficult your situation is right now. I’m sorry if we got off the wrong footing, but I hope we can make amends.”
The change in tone, barely perceptible, still managed to give Valentino severe emotional whiplash. Could this fucker choose a stance?
The man across from him scanned what Valentino assumed were his files, humming an unknown tune.
“I can see on here you attempted to commit suicide by drug overdose about a week ago, on October 13th.” Mr. Whittman remarked.
Wow. Truly a revelation. His clarity was blinding.
And yet, in almost predictable fashion, Valentino didn’t say anything. He was too exhausted for this. He didn’t need to confirm what was factually true.
It was so hazy anyway. It got tiring, being asked the same questions over and over. Asked to recite what exactly happened and ‘why’ (as if he knew) to police officers, paramedics, nurses, doctors, legal persons, etc.… Each recount seemed to twist the truth just a little.
The lack of responses did not seem to deter Freaky-eyes.
A breath, and:
“Why did you choose to commit?”
Well. What was he supposed to say? What did he want him to say?
Outside, the hospital continued to metabolize in loud, excessive commotion.
“I dunno.” Valentino mumbled, picking at his fingers.
Mr. Whittman looked at him, face unreadable, and then glanced back down at his files.
“That’s okay.” A beat. “Well. Did you have suicidal thoughts before the… incident?”
“... Yes.” Valentino said quietly. That felt like a given.
Mr. Whittman wrote something down. Hopefully drafting his funeral plans.
“Valentino. What were you feeling during that moment? When you attempted suicide.” Mr. Whittman’s voice rattled around in his brain, chocolatey rich. Low, questioning.
Fuck, he really didn’t know. His memory was corrupted from the drugs. During the moment… he just wanted to mute the noise. Drugs always seemed to solve whatever problem he had, so he reached for them. It was easy when they were always placed right in front of him. A way to lessen the pain. To stop existing for a bit. He remembered not wanting to live, but he also didn’t want to die, either.
He still, sort of, felt that way, but at least the thoughts were more distant and muffled under many, many layers.
“I dunno. I know I was really high, I guess.”
Mr. Whittman clicked his tongue, hands rustling pages.
“What drugs were you on?”
Didn’t that fucker have his notes? They ran a drug test on him the moment he was ushered into the hospital. Shouldn’t he know?
“Fentanyl? Cocaine? I dunno, shit, I was just taking all the stuff I had.”
“So, was it an accidental overdose?” Mr. Whittman pressed.
“No–Yes–Fuck!”
Valentino groaned, head in his hands.
“I don’t fucking know. I just remembered being very high, and then I think I fainted and then…I was, like, resurrected. Suddenly I was awake, in a hospital, and there were so many people and they were shoving Narcan up my nose so many times and they ran dozens of tests on me, put me on IV fluids and shit. I remember being told I overdosed. I guess it makes sense I wanted to kill myself.”
“Why does it make sense to you? Were you told it was a suicide attempt?”
“...I— Look. I don’t know. I just–” he hiccupped. A moment of quiet. “....I don’t want to talk about this right now.” His eyes were stinging again. He was so fucking useless and pathetic.
Mr. Whittman’s blue and green eyes bore into him. Valentino absentmindedly wondered whether they gave him x-ray powers or some freaky shit. Why else were they so fucking bright?
“That’s fine. We have time.”
Time. What a stupid concept.
The rest of the therapy session flew by too slow and too fast and not fast enough. Mr. Whittman continued to ask more pointless questions, emotions as viable as a stiff board, and Valentino continued to sit there in cynical hilarity, each passing second contributing evidence to his newfound belief in absurdism— for nothing mattered, so why care anyway?
Eventually, when the questions and answers were eating their own tails, the clock struck 9:45. Valentino immediately stood up and dusted invisible, aggravating particles off himself, eyes still sore from his breakdown.
They said their farewells, Mr. Whittman’s hands clasped behind his back, and Valentino left, glad to be free of the torture room.
Mrs. Kelly stood outside. Didn’t meet his gaze as she chauffeured him back to his 9 foot by 9 foot prison cell.