#went to the pharmacy to get these new meds. stepped out of the car. knee twinged. 'oops i forgot my cane'

[milkweedman]

Am in so much pain right now its unreal

[breanime]

So Sick

-Requested by @suchatinyinfinity:  A being a drama queen to the point where B basically force feeds A just to get them to shut up about how they’re ‘definitely dying’ with Billy Russo please

*gif not mine*

Billy was pacing. He knew he was pacing. Curtis and Frank—who were watching him pace—knew he was pacing. Which was odd, because Billy Russo wasn’t a pacer.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in the carpet,” Curtis said from his seat at Billy’s desk.

“Kiss my ass, Curtis,” Billy said, pacing away.

“How long he’s been doing this?” Frank asked, leaning against the door frame.

Curtis looked at his watch. “Twelve minutes and counting.”

Billy stopped. Had it really been that long? He took out his cell phone. “I’m gonna call her again.”

You didn’t answer.

“Maybe she’s busy,” Frank said, “I think Karen said something about her working a lot the last couple of days—”

“—Try weeks,” Billy corrected, resuming his pacing, “She got this temporary promotion and she’s been breaking her back bending over backwards for that bastard boss of hers.”

“Lotta b’s in that sentence,” Frank mused.

Billy glared at him. “She didn’t come home last night.”

“Billy,” Curtis sighed, “She’s working, you gotta trust her—”

He rolled his eyes. “I do trust her. I know where she’s at when she’s not at home.” He shook his head. “But she’s working way too much, she’s gonna crash.”

Curtis scoffed. “Pot meet kettle,” he murmured.

Billy pocketed his phone. “I’m going to her job,” he declared, “Something’s wrong, I know it.” He grabbed his jacket and wrestled it on. “Can you handle prepping the recruits today, Frankie?”

Frank nodded, pushing off of the door. “No problem. You want me to be the good cop or the bad cop?”

Billy grinned. “Bad cop.” He turned to Curtis. “You mind dealing with the senator and her husband, Curt?”

“Sure,” he stood up and straightened his tie, “She likes me better, anyway.”

“I’d disagree, but not even I’m that good of a liar,” Billy patted Frank on the shoulder as he passed by, “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

He heard both of their laughs as he walked out, followed by Curtis’ “no promises!”.

You were beat. Your body ached, your throat was burning, and you were so hungry you were nauseous. You’d been working your ass off and been up all night and now your body was punishing you for it. You hadn’t even slept at home last night—or at all! You wanted to call Billy, just to hear his voice, but you couldn’t even find your phone. It was buried under one of the (many) mountains of paperwork on your desk. Hm… Your desk looked strangely enticing. Kind of comfortable… Your head was killing you, maybe you’d just take a quick power nap—just for a minute.

Billy walked into your job with a frown on his face. He’d been there before, so he didn’t waste time at the check-in desk. He knew how to get to your office. He ignored some of your co-workers’ overzealous “Hi Billy!” greetings and kept it moving. Those pieces of shit should get off their asses and help you out—you were basically keeping the company running on your own.

“Mr. Russo,” your boss stepped in Billy’s path, a smile on his stupid face, “So good to see you. How are you?”

“Fine.” Billy looked past him and saw your office door was closed. “Just came to check in on Y/N.”

“Oh, she’s fantastic, that one,” the boss gushed, “Don’t know what I would do without her. She’s really been impressing us all here with this promotion. I haven’t told her yet,” he leaned closer to Billy, “But she’s got the job.” His smile widened. “You should tell her! Or we could tell her together—”

“—I’ll tell her,” Billy put on a smile, “Might take her out for a celebratory drink if you don’t mind sparing her.”

“No, of course not!” He nodded so hard Billy thought he’d give himself a nosebleed. “She’s earned it! Actually, she’s earned a few days off. Whisk her away if you will!”

Billy forced himself to laugh as he sidestepped the man. “Great. Thanks.” He got to your door and knocked once before opening it.

His heart melted.

Your head was on your desk, and you were surrounded by papers. Billy shut the door and went over to your desk. He put his hand on your head, smiling despite himself. Until he heard the way you were breathing—you sounded congested. He flipped his hand over and pressed it to your forehead. You were warm, too.

You nuzzled against his hand, eyelids fluttering open slowly. “Oh,” you smiled up at him, “Hi, baby.”

“Hey. You sick, sweetheart?” He asked, voice low. You sat up, and Billy wanted nothing more than to pick you up and hold you to him.

“I… May be dying,” you admitted.

Billy chuckled. “Let’s get you home.”

You spent the ride home with your pounding head on Billy’s shoulder as he drove. Every few minutes he would drop a kiss onto your burning forehead. You dozed off but woke up when you felt the car stop. Blinking yourself awake, you caught Billy’s back as he went into… A pharmacy? He was only in for a few minutes, but when he came back—greeting you with a soft smile and a gentles kiss to the temple—you took the bag from him and peered inside.

“Tylenol? Tissues? Cough drops?” You looked up at him as he started the car. “Thanks, Billy.”

“No problem,” he reached for your hand and held it as he drove, “By the way, I talked to your boss.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not—for once. You got the promotion,” he squeezed your hand in his, “He said I can take you out, cause you know, I needed his permission…”

You giggled, closing your eyes. Billy’s general disdain for your boss always made you smile. You were happy about your promotion, but more than that, you were happy to be with Billy.

When you got home, Billy made you take a bath while he made you tea and called your job, telling them you wouldn’t be coming in for the next few days. He’d set your pajamas out for you when you got out, and you heard him on the phone as you got dressed.

“Yeah? That’s great, Curt. Thanks,” he was saying, “Yeah, I’m gonna stay home with Y/N tomorrow. Thanks, brother…”

You laid in bed, shivering under the heavy covers. You had started feeling a little bit better after your bath, but now your body was hurting again. You closed your eyes—even your eyelids hurt—and felt your head start to pound again. You put a hand over your stomach, you were hungry, but you knew there was no way you were getting out of bed anytime soon. “Billy…” You called. He didn’t answer. Groaning, you rolled over so that you were facing the open door to you bedroom. “Billy….Billlllllyyyyyyyy.”

He appeared in the doorway with a tray in his hands. “You rang?”

“What are you doing? I need cuddles,” you whined.

He laughed, coming over and putting the tray on the bedside table. “Got you covered, babe.” He helped you sit up (because you were basically a human noodle at this point) and put the tray on your lap. He sat next to you and put an arm around you. “Start with the medicine,” he instructed.

You made a face. He had put two white pills and one blue one on your tray next to your tea and a bottle of water. “What are these?” You asked, stalling.

“The white ones are for the fever and aches, the blue one’s for the headache. And there’s something in your tea for your sore throat.”

“You drugged my tea?” You fake gasped, ignoring the pain that came with it. The dramatics were worth it. “I can’t drink this.”

Billy rolled his eyes, a small smile still on his face. “You can and you will. Let’s go, Y/N.”

Pouting, you took your medicine. You put your head on Billy’s shoulder, eyes closed. “There’s a tiny little man in my head banging a hammer,” you complained.

“I’m the only man who’s allowed to be inside you,” he said back.

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, even though they were closed. “I’m dying and you’re making innuendos.”

“I don’t think that was subtle enough to be an innuendo,” he said back, completely unrepentant.

“Billly,” you whined, “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. Drink your tea.”

“I am dying. My body is breaking down. I didn’t even get to enjoy my promotion,” you sniffled, “And I’m gonna die ugly.”

Billy scoffed. “You are not ugly,” he argued.

You opened your bleary eyes, glaring at him. “Seriously? You’re going to lie to me—on my death bed?”

“Again,” he said, “you’re not dying, and I’m not lying. You’re always beautiful to me.”

“I’m dying and you won’t even hold me,” you continued as if he hadn’t said anything, raising your knees a bit to displace the tray. He reached over and steadied it. “I don’t want tea, I want cuddleeeeeeees.”

With a sigh, Billy moved the tray and set it aside. He turned back to you, wrapping you in his arms and lying on his back so your head was on his chest. He put a hand under your back, running it up and down in a soothing gesture. “Just give the medicine time to kick in, baby. You’ll start to feel better soon.”

“It’s cute that you’re in denial,” you said, eyes closed as you breathed in Billy’s scent with your one working nostril, “I just want to be clear, if you try to get a new chick after me, I’ll haunt you forever.” You sighed when he kissed the top of your head. “I want Frank to wear white to my funeral, he wears so much black already, it wouldn’t mean anything. And I want Curtis to throw a whole scene.” You snuggled closer to his chest, the rise and fall of it making you drowsy…or maybe that was the meds. “Promise me, Ned.”

“Is that a Game of Thrones reference?”

“Yes,” you said proudly, “Lyanna Stark said it on her death bed, and now I’m saying it on mine.”

“Okay,” Billy sat up, forcing you to sit up with him, “Why don’t we get something in you and maybe you’ll start to feel better?”

You leaned back on the headboard, eyes still closed, “Okay, but you’re gonna have to be on top.”

Billy laughed. “I hate you,” he said, shaking his head, “here, I got you some toast and stuff to settle your stomach.”

“Billy, I’m dying,” you said again, “I’m definitely dying, and this is what you want my last meal to be? I can barely breathe, you’re supposed to be sexing me up, not trying to poison me with—” You were silenced when Billy stuck the toast in your mouth. You opened your eyes, glaring at him as you chewed.

Billy smiled, satisfied. “Good. Finish that and drink your tea,” he stood up, “I’ll be right back.”

You ate the toast—even though you were dying—and drank down the tea. The warm liquid was soothing, you had to admit. But you missed Billy’s warmth, and sat up when he came back with a bowl in his hands.

“Chicken noodle soup for my dramatic girl,” he announced, placing the bowl on your tray. He climbed into bed behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist to pull you closer. He took the spoon and lifted it to your lips. “Open up.”

Smiling despite yourself, you leaned forward and let him feed you. Before you knew it, you were almost done with the soup, your throat was feeling a little better, and you were slowly starting to accept that you weren’t dying. You leaned back into Billy and felt him press another kiss to the top of your head. “Two facts,” you stated, “I love you and I’m sleepy.”

Billy chuckled. “Let’s take a nap then.” He picked up the tray and moved it. Carefully, since he knew that you were achy, he positioned you back on his chest. “I love you,” he said, voice low. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

You closed your eyes, already drifting off. “Thanks for not letting me die, baby.” You said.

His soft laugh sang you to sleep.

*******************************************************************************************

Fun fact: I wrote this while listening to gangsta rap at Starbucks, haha! Also, I named this after the Ne-YO song for no reason except that it had the word “sick” in it. Thanks for reading!

Taglist: @floralpeaceofmind​ @delicatelilyflower​ @dylanobrusso​ @ladyblablabla​ @banditthewriter​ @something-tofightfor​  @starsfragments​ @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme​ @hisgirlwednesdayaddams​@fictionwillneverdie @maria-beretta​ @sadnessxvodka​ @ymariejp​ @sunnycolors​ @moonlightsay​ @its-all-o-kay @damagelove​ @keyeluh @itsmylife98​ @funerals-with-cake​ @littlemermaidprobz​ @teacuplotus​ @king4thesirens​ @mrsjaxtellerfan​ @thebabblingbook​ @tartelette-aux-fraises​ @madamrogers​  @charlylama​ @iaintnofurry​​ @k-buggz2001​​ @whitewolfslittlesilverfox @drinix​ @elanor-of-imladris​ @blah-blah-fuckit-shit @julliiaaq​ @holamor​ @ymariejp@shadowhunterscloset @songtoyou​ @anabella-baby @heyitslexy @luminex3 @sithskywalkers @carlaangel86@sssilverssserpent @jupiter-blake @binbons-is-theloml @captainblackeyes @importantkidmakerfire @luminex3 @the-blind-assassin-12 @editboutique @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @whovianayesha saltyshaggymeme @my-little-dumpster-fire @rhabakoli 

[hetalia-boyfriend-scenario]

S/o having a massive anxiety attack?

This may be triggering for some. Flavio is kind of a terrible person in this. But I would like to base it on how I think he would react.

1p Spain ( Antonio):

"So what movie do you want to watch bonito/a." We are looking through netflix and I am snuggling up to my partner. They are holding on to me.

"I guess anything. I need to really unwine from this unbelieve day." They say that while nuzzling there nose into my neck. "Make it something from your country. Suprise me."

As I sit here with my boyfriend and he puts on the movie. I just start thinking about my day and the fact that I have run out of my meds. As well I can not get more intill tomorrow, because the Pharmacy is closed today.

I would not be suprise if he pick a romance. That is what we normal watch, when he picks a movie.

"Ok, let me think." Antonio is going through the search bar and types up spain and goes through the movies. He get this devilish look on his face, he is up to something. "How about we watch REC."

"What is it about?"

"It a suprise." I give him this look of annoyance. "You said you wanted it to be a suprise." He say shaking his hands up in the air.

"Alright"

While we watch the movie. I immediately tell it is some sort of mystery. Like the news people (I forget what there called) go to interview the fire fighter and watch them work. It in the veiw of the camer.

"Is this a horror movie?" Antonio shakes his head up and down. "You know I get scared during these things!"

"Do not worry I will protect you." He pulls me closer to his chest. "You have to experience a spainsh horror movie. There the best horror movies."

"I do not like horror movies in General."

It get further and further into the movie. I am paying attention to the movie, but I am as well thinking about everything that went wrong today.

I start to over analyze everything. Oh my god. Whar is that? I throw up immediately, the first step of every massive anxiety attack I have ever had.

"Wow, it not even at the gross stu-"

I am start to breath deep and quick, I start to cry, and then I run to the opposite side of the apartment.

I go into a little ball, just start to go back and further. My boyfriend rushes in. I can tell his talking, but I can not hear I thing. But I do start to avoid eyes contact. I want to look anywhere but him. I just don't want him to see me like this.

I see after my partner throws up. That they stuble away, crying, and doing this weird breathing thing. "Wow, we are not even at the gross stuff. Hey are you alright?" They start to run across the apartment. I rush after them assuming they are going to the bathroom. But intead they go to the bedroom? "Hey, Bonita/o?! What the matter?!"

They crubble to the growned and go into a tiny ball. There hyperventilating. Oh god what have I done. When they mentioned that they had a bad day, they most havw thought I understood that they ment anxious.

I walk into the room. "I am sorry." There sill hyperventilating. "What can I do to help you?" They look up at the ceiling and around. They look at me but refuse to give me eyes contact. "Tesero?"

They put there head in there knees. "I want my mommy" I hear them whisper under their voice.

"I do not have your mamá number. What is it?" They do not seem to hear me. I go back to the living room for their phone. I see it by their wallet. I pick it up and I put in their password. I call their mamá.

2p Romano(Flavio):

We are just arriving from a fashion show. It was amazing. But all those models where nothing like me. I was thinking about this all throughout the night, that I was hardly even enjoying the show. I think Flavio wad able to tell. I was breathing deeply during the entire thing, just wanting to cry. But I know Flavio would be deeply embarrassed if I expressed these emotions.

Flavio opens the door for me, when we enter the car. Then he goes right next to me. "Drive us home." He orders the driver to do. I see Flavio turn to me "What made you want to cry during it?"

"Very funny. I did not want to cry. In fact I was quite enjoying the show."

"Then explain why you are at the break of tears right now." I give him these look of how do you know. "It in your voice, Bella/o."

I burst into tear and start to hyperventilate. "It just- I don't- hate... Body." Flavio start to close the window that makes it easier for him to contact the driver."

"What got you down about your body?" Flavio is looking at me and expects a answer. But I know I will not be able to talk right now. I try but I ened up barfing. "Oh my god. Are you sick." He open back up the window. "Get us back home ASAP!" He closes the window again. He doea not touch me. Probably because I am not as pretty/handsome as those models. "What do you want me to do? How sick are you? If you knew you were sick, why dis you come. Do you know how bad it would be for my reputation if my partner throw up in public."

I just look at him. He is right. I should have know I would not have been able to handle seeing all those models. He still is not touching me.

"Hey are you going to talk to me?" I look away from him. I am embarrassed for the fact he saw me throw up and currently have a panic attack.

"I am sorry!" I scream.

He gives me this puzzled look. "What are you sorry for?" He looks at me "Your hyperventilate. Oh my god. I am so sorry. Is that way you throw up." He start to go in foe the hug, but he stops. "I do not want to get my clothes dirty."

I start to move away from him.

"Why are you distancing yourself from me?"

"YOU WANT ONE OF YOUR MODEL FRIENDS DON'T YOU!" I yell, then I go back into a ball. "All you care about is how you appear to other people."

"NO! I do not!" He screams it too, but not has loud.

I just distance myself from him more.

"Fine you will not even look at me. What did I do wrong. I am the perfect boyfriend. You should not be having a panic attack right now."

Then he looks at himself. 'Am I the reason there crying'. "Is the reason you are crying because you do not look like those models?" I do not budge, I just start rocking back and forth.

He start to move closer to me. His shoes get into the throw up, but he still get closer to me. He then pulls me closer to him. "I will do anything you ask. Just tell me. And I am sorry for making it about me."

2p Italy ( Luciano): This talks about sexual assult. If that triggers you please do not read.

I fidle with my keys. I am trying to open the door. But I am on the urge on having a panic attack, which is making my vision blurr. I final get the right key, in the right way, and open the door. I walk inside and once the door is close, I crumble to the growned. I start hyperventilating even thought I already did this at my works bathroom. It does not stop me from doing it here. That man touched me again. I feel disgusting.

I see Luciano rushing in "Amore?! What is it?" He rushes over and start to hols me. "Is it your anxiety?" Luciano never acts like this. "You have been having a lot of these lately. Did you forget to take your meds? I will get them?" He say rushing through his sentace really quickly and then start speaking in italian "Cosa sta succedendo con lui. Sono così preoccupato" He say it under his breath.

"Luciano. Please do not get mad at me."

"Why would I be mad at you?" I hear worry in his voice.

"This guy at work... Well he has been... I do not know what he has been doing. But he grab me by my crouche and said this disgusting thing in my ear. I am sorry. I probably did something to ask for it. But I do not know wh-"

He see this look on his face. He is probably mad at me. "Who is this man?" He looks directly at me, I swear he is looking into my soul "And what did he say to you?"

"I do not want to repeat it."

"Do not worry. I will take care of things. Now stop hyperventilating."

" I can't, I want my mommy." I say under my voice.

I know Luciano is a little off topic. But it was the best I could do for him. I was running out of ideas. I was thinking about including school. But I like the idea that the S/O is a adult. I find it easier to write.

When I am having a severe anxiety attack. I throw up and I do not know how other react. So I pretty much base it on my personal experiences with anxiety.

[crossbows-and-moonshine]

Lunacy Fringe (Chapter 15)

Sorry updates have been slow. I have fibromyalgia and I’m having a really bad flare-up. I’m having to take more of my pain meds which are super strong so they’re knocking me on my ass and I’m struggling to just function as a human right now loool

--------------------

When they got inside the gates Daryl felt the relief flood his body. The first pharmacy had been a bust, they had managed to get in but there was nothing left. The second one was a gold mine though but it hadn't been easy. He was thankful Aaron was with him and the three others were competent enough to help. If he had been stuck with assholes that hindered him and getting the meds back to his people, he might have just left them behind. The three others had distracted the walkers in the parking lot letting Daryl and Aaron slip in. It was dangerous but it worked. They dispatched the few stragglers and got to work. Daryl had a list of the shit they needed but he grabbed a bunch of other shit too in case they needed it. He had no plans to return here.

He jumped out of the car, a bag slung over each shoulder as he all but ran to the infirmary. Rick was sat on the steps looking forlorn and Daryl's heart sank. Rick frowned when he saw him and stood up, walking over.

“Did you get them?” he asked hopefully, making Daryl nod feeling pleased he had done his job. He handed the bags over to Rick and watched the relief pass over his face. But then it was replaced with worry.

“We need to talk,” Rick said carefully and Daryl stood up taller like he was bracing himself for bad news,

“He dead?” he asked, his voice wavering a little. Rick knew he was referring to Glenn and he shook his head feeling upset and worried about the words about to leave his lips.

“Brother… Zoey’s sick,” he lamented, so much pain behind his haunted eyes as he watched Daryl’s face fall.

The usually stoic man was able to hide his emotions well but right now Rick saw every single one that passed on his face. The main ones being fear and heartbreak.

“I need to see ‘er,” he said firmly, his voice rougher than usual. He went to walk past but Rick sidestepped him, making Daryl growl as he glared at him.

“I can't risk it, Daryl. You know that. She's in safe hands and we have what we need now. She should get better,” Rick said cautiously.

“Should? Man, that ain’t ‘nough for me! Let me see ‘er!” he roared not caring who heard him at this late hour as he went to move passed. Rick blocked him again, his face sterner now. He knew he was hurting and he got it, but he wasn't letting him in.

“I said no! We need you here Daryl. Safe and well. I ain't riskin' you gettin' sick too. I know you’re worried, I get it. But there ain't nothin' else we can do right now but get the medication to her and hope it works,” Rick hated that he couldn't just let him in, but if Daryl got sick and he ended up dead, it would be a huge loss for him and not something he was willing to go through. Maybe he was being selfish but he didn't care. They needed him here.

“I ain’t even say goodbye to her ‘fore I left. I need to see her. Rick… if anythin’ happens to her… I can't…” he shook his head as he lowered it, his lower lip quivering a little at the pain settling deep into his bones. Rick stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, tilting his head as he tried to catch his eyes.

“Look, if she gets worse I’ll let you in to talk to her. But I think she’ll be just fine. Go home and get some rest alright? I’ll be there to keep you updated on any changes,” Rick said, his voice low and soothing. Daryl knew he was using his diplomatic cop voice on him but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was hurting and he couldn't even go to see her. He nodded and trudged off back home. She was sick and the last thing she needed was him causing a huge scene outside just to get in to see her.

He hated that he hadn't said goodbye to her. He knew she would have been worried about him. And then she was sick all on her own without him there to help her. He sat on the couch, head in his hands. He wouldn't be able to sleep, he knew that much. He needed to stay awake in case anything happened. He really hoped they got the meds back in time and that she would be okay. The thought of her getting worse, of having to go in there to say goodbye, it made him feel sick. He couldn't lose someone else. He just couldn't. Each loss was getting harder and harder to cope with now and Zoey meant more to him than anyone else. He hated that he hadn't told her how he really felt about her, unaware he actually had.

Dread settled like a heavy weight in his stomach as the bunny hopped over. He picked it up and set it on his lap as he stroked it. It was her bunny, the one she had saved. She was far too compassionate and caring for this new world even after all she went through but that's why he loved her. He couldn't find a word for how he felt about her, love didn't seem to cut it for him. He never thought he would feel this way about anyone, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. And now he was at risk of losing her, losing his lifeline.

Hours passed with him sat here staring into space. No one had come to talk to him but it was relieving. No news was good news. The door suddenly opened and Rick came in and Daryl watched him as the bile rose into his throat.

“She's fine,” Rick said instantly as he shut the door. Knowing Daryl would be expecting the worst. He came over, sitting on the coffee table right in front of Daryl who sagged in the chair. The relief was evident on his face that she was okay.

“We gave them all the meds. Now it's just a waitin' game to see if they work,” Rick said quietly, his face tired and worn. Daryl nodded as he looked down.

“The fuck happened?” he asked wearily.

“I don't know. Me and Maggie were outside the infirmary when she came over. We knew she was sick right away. She looked bad. She was coughing and coughed up some blood. Denise said it could have been from her throat with how hard she was coughin'. Then she passed out,” Rick explained carefully. Each word felt like a knife stabbing Daryl's heart. That he hadn't been there to help her at all.

“She was the last one to get sick. She's got more of a chance than anyone else of pullin' through this if the meds work,” Rick mumbled tiredly. Daryl chewed his thumb just looking down. Rick could see it all over him, that he was expecting the worst to happen, preparing himself for it. Rick leaned forward a little patting his knee.

“You gotta have hope brother. I know its hard. All the shit we’ve been through, all the people we lost. But you gotta have the hope she'll pull through. You gotta be strong. For her,” Rick insisted. Daryl finally met his eyes. It was hard to have hope. Hope never got him anywhere in life. But he knew what Rick was saying. He did need to be strong for her. He wasn't the one sick. She was probably terrified in there without him. He knew how much comfort she took in him. And he wasn't here to soothe her.

“She awake?” Daryl asked as he kept chewing his thumb.

“She’s in and out of it. Keeps askin' for you when she wakes up but then she's gone again,” Rick explained, his heart clenching at the guilt all over Daryl's face.

“As soon as she's out of the woods you can go and see her. But you know why I can let you go in yet right?” Rick asked with a frown. His own guilt eating at him for keeping Daryl away from the girl. Daryl nodded. He did get it. The last thing they needed was the whole community getting sick.

“Hows Glenn?” he stopped chewing his thumb because it started to hurt too much and went back to petting the bunny. Just like Zoey would do for comfort.

“He's hangin' on. His fevers pretty bad but Maggie and Denise are doin' all they can to bring it down,” Rick sighed. Daryl felt for the man. He looked so worn down and he knew he was shouldering the blame for all of this, despite the fact it was out of their control.

Days, four fucking days had passed and he hadn't been allowed to see her. They were all responding well to the meds, their fevers reducing, but it was slow progress and he still couldn't see her yet. He felt like he was losing his damn mind. Pacing around the house or harassing Rick for information about her and how she was. He knew this was how she felt every time he left the walls. Just cooped up in the house worrying like this. It made him feel so guilty for ever leaving. He knew what he was feeling now would only be a fraction of how she felt with her anxiety the way it was. Rick had told him she was awake now and she kept pleading to see him, it broke his heart. Luckily Maggie was there and she would sit with her and try to calm her down.

He got up and walked outside, ready to go and talk to Rick again, only to find Rick walking up his path. His heart sank again. It always did when he saw him now, expecting bad news. To hear she got worse or that she died in her fucking sleep.

“I spoke to Denise and she thinks you should be able to see her now. We put her in the room upstairs on her own. Because she was the last to get sick, she responded quicker than the others to the meds. We didn't want her to get sick again so she's on her own out of the way,” Rick explained. Daryl felt like he might cry out of relief and nodded, all but running to the infirmary.

When he got there he walked right in, giving Glenn and Maggie a nod as he walked past. Glenn looked better, not as sick as Rick had described and Daryl was glad it seemed like things were looking up. He took the stairs two at a time, the nerves and excitement of seeing her overwhelming him. He opened the door and walked inside, watching as she sat up straighter looking like a spooked animal, the fear all over her face and it broke his heart. Seeing her after convincing himself she was going to die made his heart shatter in his chest and he ran over to her. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her in a hug as he tried to stop the onslaught of tears that were fighting him. She sobbed helplessly as she clung to him like a lost child and it only hurt him more.

He moved to sit on the bed, still holding her as he stroked her hair, burying his nose in it and letting her scent soothe him. She was okay and alive. They were silent as she cried and he fought his own tears, soaking each other in. They both knew the gravity of the situation and it had jarred them both. When she finally moved away she wiped her watery eyes as he looked at her. She still looked a little paler than usual, he dreaded to think what she looked like when she was worse.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice shaky and rough sounding from all the coughing she had been doing. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“I missed ya too,” he replied, his own voice thick with emotion.

She took his hand, shaking her head as another sob left her lips and she kissed his knuckles affectionately. It seemed to be something she did a lot and it always made his insides turn to mush. She had been so frightened here without him. Being kept away from him like this was her own personal hell. Finally seeing him again made her feel all sorts of things and she was overwhelmed.

“I love you,” she blurted, looking up at him so earnestly he felt like the air got sucked out of his lungs. The words caught him off guard. He knew he felt that way about her but he hadn't told her yet because he was convinced she wouldn't feel the same. And now she was outright telling him. It felt like a flock of birds were in his stomach, fluttering as they tried to escape. The worry and fear of losing her was still bubbling under the surface and her words seemed to break the dam. He lowered his head as a choked sob left his lips, his chest heaving. She watched him forlornly, her own tears trailing down her cheeks. She was nervous that he hadn't said anything but he was so sad it was killing her.

“I love ya too,” he sobbed brokenly, trying to tell his brain she was okay, that she wasn't going to die. That he wouldn't lose the most important person in his life. Her heart expanded at his words and she pulled him closer, kissing him softly. Denise had told her she shouldn't be contagious anymore and she was glad. She had needed Daryl more than anything. When they broke apart he rested his forehead on hers, his chest still heaving as he tried to calm himself.

“I thought… “ he couldn't even finish his sentence, the thought hurting him in every way. He shook his head as he tried to suppress another sob.

“I know. But I’m here. You're here. We’re both okay,” she soothed, stroking his cheek and making him look at her. He inhaled deeply, leaning into her touch as it grounded him. Bringing him back to the here and now where they were indeed both fine and well. He gave her a little smile as he hand came up and buried itself in her long dark hair. The air around them felt lighter now they knew how they felt about one another. Like the heavy burden of keeping it to themselves had been lifted.

Daryl never would have thought she felt the same way, he would have told her sooner if he knew. He still didn't understand it. How someone as amazing as her would want him. Yet here she was, with him and declaring her love for him. It made him feel good. Maybe things were looking up for once.

“You know, you actually told me you loved me the night you got drunk,” she said with a wry smile as she wiped her eyes, trying to lighten the mood. Now he had said it back to her she felt like she could mention it. He squinted a little, his brain suddenly remembering and his cheeks tinged pink as she laughed lightly.

“You fell right asleep too so I never had the chance to ask if you meant it,” she smiled softly, still holding his hand. He looked at her, leaning in and brushing the tip of his nose against hers.

“‘Course I meant it. Didn't mean to say it when I was drunk but I fuckin’ meant it,” he whispered, her breathing hitching a little at their closeness. It always made her head spin. He captured her lips in a needy kiss. One she willingly melted into as she kissed him back. They had been used to being separated for days when Daryl left the walls but this was different. Daryl had put himself in huge danger and she had been so sick they didn't know if she would pull through. They had missed each other and both dealt with their own worries.

They were panting when they broke apart and she opened her big blue eyes to look into his. Daryl’s lips quirked into a smile, one she mirrored as she just stayed close to him, wanting to soak him in as much as she could.

“I love ya,” he murmured against her lips, feeling so fucking wonderful and light that he could freely say that now without worry. The amount of times he had almost just blurted it out to her when the feeling overwhelmed him. She grinned at him, her cheeks a pretty pink colour.

“I love you too,” she replied with a smile, making a warmth spread through his chest. He was so grateful she was okay. Grateful it looked like Glenn would be okay and the others. The good thing was that they had grabbed so much medication that if something like this happened again, they would be prepared next time and hopefully it wouldn't get this bad.

He remembered what Rick said about having hope. Something he never had in his life because he always felt like it was pointless. But now he found himself with a little spark of hope in his chest. Hope that things were getting better. Hope that he would be able to live out his life here with his girl and they could both be happy. That he could truly be happy for once. Maybe this hope thing wasn't so bad after all.

Taglist; @risingphoenix761 @daryldixonandfrogs @arlaina28 @divadinag @keeperofwonderlandus @jodiereedus22 @easnuppa @fand0m-fiend @txladyj-blog @walkingdead-dixon @of-storms-and-sadness @lonewolf471

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

BARRON'S PENTA How a Child of Wealth Became a Drug Addict How a child of affluence became addicted to opioids and lost everything but her life. Email Print 4 Comments Order Reprints Facebook Twitter Google+ smaller Larger By CARA COSLOW June 16, 2017 8:43 p.m. ET Cara Coslow, drug-free for seven years, came clean only after she lost her entire fortune. Shayan Asgharnia I am a recovering opioid addict. I once went to the dentist because of an infected tooth, a common occurrence normally treated by antibiotics. Instead, I persuaded the dentist to pull three perfectly good teeth in order to get one prescription of 30 Vicodin—taken in a single dose before I’d even left the pharmacy. I was so addicted to Vicodin that I needed a constant level of opioid in my system just to function, and I kept myself going in four-hour increments. Three teeth seemed a small price to pay. I come from an affluent family. My father, Sam Coslow, was a composer and movie producer who won an Academy Award for producing the 1943 short film Heavenly Music. He followed his early show-business career with a more lucrative career in finance, after founding a stock market newsletter called Indicator Digest. I had a beautiful and witty mother, Frances King, who had parlayed her opera training into a cabaret act during New York’s Cafe Society era, regularly performing at the Manhattan restaurant One Fifth Avenue. I grew up in beautiful homes in Miami and Bronxville, N.Y.; spent my summers in London and Florence; and got an undergraduate degree in English from Sarah Lawrence College. I was not supposed to end up a drug addict. If you, your child, or spouse has a drug problem, know that your family is not alone. A scourge is upon our country. Nintey-one people a day die from opioid overdoses, almost quadruple the rate in 1999, calculates the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. That means 300,000 Americans died from opioid overdoses from 1999 to 2015, with middle-age adults being the most vulnerable. President Donald Trump has just ordered a special opioid-crisis commission. Many consider this to be the worst drug crisis the country has ever known. Now, looking back, I see there were some early red flags. I had been a panicky child, plagued by a severe case of separation anxiety from my mother. This was the 1960s: A bit of tranquilizer was considered a good way to get me to school. By the time I was in my late teens, I was addicted to downers. Cocaine and booze followed, but I found the 12 steps and stayed sober for many years, until the pressures of my budding Hollywood career produced a series of headaches. My opioid addiction began with a single prescription for Vicodin, prescribed for my migraines. I was in my early 30s and head of casting at Carsey-Werner, one of the most successful television-production companies ever. I oversaw the casting of Roseanne, Cosby, and That ’70s Show. I was nominated for an Emmy and discovered Ashton Kutcher. I had all of the material prizes: a six-figure salary, a companypaid $100,000 car, and a beautiful home in Encino, Calif., which I spent a year meticulously renovating. Coslow was a panicky girl and given a bit of tranquilizer to get her to school. Cara Coslow I had no idea that these drugs, prescribed for legitimate pain, would end up taking everything but my life. I liked the way they made me feel. Vicodin was the best antidepressant I’d ever known. These pills gave me energy and spunk. They gave me the qualities I wanted but couldn’t manufacture on my own. I went from filling these prescriptions monthly, to twice monthly, to weekly, to doctor-shopping to come up with a prescription for 30 pills every day—the amount I needed to function. The opioids no longer made me feel good; without them, I suffered almost unmanageable pain. It felt as though I had tiny coal miners with tiny pickaxes living in the center of my bones and scraping to get out. I’d sweat profusely, have diarrhea, and vomit. So I endured surgeries and injuries and tooth extractions for the next handful of pills. Opioid withdrawal is a pain like no other—it will bring the toughest stevedore to his knees. By 2000, I was putting in only brief appearances at work. My days instead were spent going from the emergency room to urgent care and from doctor to dentist in an ever-widening radius. You couldn’t see the same doctors too often, or they’d know you were seeking drugs. I faked injuries or inflicted them on myself, and ran an elaborate con game on the medical community. Glancing at a photograph of a teen behind a doctor’s desk, I’d say, “Is that a photo of your son? Why, he’s good-looking. Has he ever thought of…acting?” I’d practically promise to make the kid a star. I awoke one Christmas morning in acute withdrawal, desperately needing more pills. I was due to spend the day with friends and their child, whom I adored. But by then, I had used up all of the neighborhood medical facilities and was seeking drugs on the outskirts of town, at shabby clinics that needed my cash. But because it was Christmas, I bolted to an emergency room in Malibu—something more festive with a view of the ocean. I was very sick when I got there. I’d learned from a doctor, who was also an addict, how to fake an embolism or a heart attack and ensure my place at the front of the ER line. But that amount of drama was pointless. I needed to get in and out for Christmas dinner. I got 10 Vicodin—not enough to get me out of withdrawal. I went to dinner, sat there in misery, and as soon as it was done, I was out the door to an urgent-care facility in El Segundo. Again, I got a dose too small to relieve the pain.So, I burst into my third ER, at a proper hospital, complaining of chest pains, sweats, and other coronary symptoms, a couple of them genuine. It didn’t matter that this was Christmas; I’d been living the same day for the past several years. Only with a shot of Demerol, administered at midnight, was I finally able to sleep. The nightmare lasted for 10 years. Along the way, I lost my entire fortune—my jewelry, my furniture, my 401(k), my art, and the collection of letters written by Colette, George Sand, and Victor Hugo that I’d purchased in a small store on the Rue du Bac in Paris. I literally lost millions of dollars, some of it in future earnings but most from the compromised logic of a drug-addled brain, like quitting my six-figure dream job and walking away from property I had invested heavily in. But it’s also important to note that I got hooked on these pills in the late 1990s—a crucial time in the history of this crisis. Suddenly, opioid medications, which had been used primarily and legitimately for acute pain that came from injuries, surgeries, or palliative care, were being prescribed liberally. In Drug Dealer, MD, Dr. Anna Lembke describes the influence of Big Pharma on the prolific prescribing of pain meds that started in the ’90s. Companies like Purdue, the manufacturer of OxyContin, funded lectures, conferences, and research that promoted the use of these drugs for nonacute pain. From 1999 to 2009, I tried to get clean some 20 times, including checking in and out of 10 acute detox wards and rehab centers, the rest at home with nurses and doctors. I couldn’t stay off the drugs. The postacute phase of detox was so miserable that I invariably went back to opioids. I tried methadone and found I couldn’t function on it. I nodded out. Too zonked to make good casting decisions, I was excluded from important meetings at work. Too ashamed to tell my bosses how much I needed help, I asked to be let out of my contract. Later, I tried Suboxone, the other drug substitute used in medication-assisted treatment. But I also abused it, never sticking to the prescribed dose. If getting off opioids is an uphill climb, getting off replacement meds is Hillary Step, Mount Everest’s nearly vertical rock face. The withdrawal from methadone and Suboxone is torturous, protracted, and next to impossible. The only time I ever came close to dying from drugs was when a detox doctor told me to stop taking methadone three days before he would perform an idiotic, highly dangerous “ultrarapid detox” procedure. It was neither rapid nor a detox. The third day off methadone, I was found almost unconscious on my guest-room floor after enduring the nearly unendurable pain of methadone withdrawal. At the hospital, I had to be administered drugs intravenously in the lobby—my blood pressure was too high even for transportation to a room. Methadone withdrawal is responsible for many documented deaths. If your loved one is hooked on opioids, please find a doctor who really understands opioid withdrawal. Then, right before another Christmas in 2009, I got lucky. I met Dr. Mark Honzel during my frequent stays in the acute detox ward of Brotman Medical Center in Culver City. He was the big doctor there, and he intimidated me. He was a no-nonsense German, and I was self-important. We butted heads, and he made me cry. But, by this point, I was living half a life, with no career and very little money. Recovery was my only real option, and I knew Honzel was the one doctor I could trust. I had overheard him tell someone that methadone withdrawal is one of the hardest there is—no other doctor I knew had copped to that. On Christmas Eve, he admitted me once again to Brotman. After two weeks, my insurance stopped paying for the detox. Honzel said it was impossible for me to go home. I needed longer-care treatment, but my insurance wouldn’t cover rehab. Honzel had started working with a new rehab center in West Hollywood called Klean, a small and elegant facility close to my condo that would allow me to bring my dog Saffron, my companion who had ridden out 15 years of my ups and downs. But I was flat broke and I knew that treatment in private rehab facilities costs between $30,000 and $100,000 a month. Honzel arranged for me to get a Klean scholarship. At Klean, I was looked after by a loving and nonjudgmental staff and wasn’t forced to continuously walk in the deserts near Palm Springs, as I had been at the Betty Ford Center. I stayed at Klean for three months. It was my route out, but there are, of course, other wonderful facilities around the country. If you need help finding a clinic near you, go to samhsa.gov, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration website, and type in your address. A range of facilities for all levels of care will pop up. But if you or your loved one is trying to kick the habit, know that there are no shortcuts to getting off opioids. You just have to soldier through it. Because I had spent so long on Suboxone, it took over a year to get my energy up and even longer to feel OK in my skin. Honzel told me, “In my experience, relapse rates with opiate addiction are about 90% one year after abstinence-based treatment. It’s significantly better with medication-assisted treatment, but MAT is not right for everyone, and each patient has to be individually assessed.” I was one of those patients who couldn’t stay on MAT without abusing it, but ultimately I fell into the 10% who remained off all drugs. And now I am paying my blessings forward, working as an intake administrator for Klean, guiding addicts through the treatment process, and telling them what to expect. I haven’t taken a mood-altering chemical since I left. It has been more than seven years. It’s a different life than I had. A better life—to be sure. E-mail: penta@barrons.com