Noah Jett Fitzaptrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maybethatsalie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2014-01-04 11:07 pm
maybethatsalie) wrote in muserevival2014-01-04 11:07 pm
Entry tags:
Word of the Day 027.
Obdurate
adj. 1. Stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or course of action. “Despite her plea, he remained obdurate.”
CONTAINS TRIGGERING CONTENT
There had to be a word that reached above and beyond reckless stupidity, but Noah couldn’t think of it right now. In fact, he wasn’t thinking straight at all. If there was something he had been for days now, it was subdued and somewhat emotionless. It was because he had been extensively humbled and shocked by the help he had been offered, and also too sick to do much else. He wanted to follow through, he really did. At first he did. But he got so far, and the panic began to set in. He was being a burden to these strangers. They had gone above and beyond to help him.
He didn’t deserve it.
No one could say he had a rational mindset these days. He was an addict, of course he didn’t. Not even close. He had been getting treatment for the pneumonia, antibiotics and Vicodin for the pain. The antibiotics he had been taking obediently, but the Vicodin? He had been cheeking every dose and in the dim room as he quietly pulled on his jeans and leather jacket, there was a mottled pile of pills sitting on the nightstand beside a half-empty bottle of water. He was jumpy and on edge at every little sound, harassed and blood-shot blue eyes constantly flicking to the closed over door, paranoid someone was going to come in at any minute.
It wasn’t just the Vicodin he was about to make a harsh mistake with. There was also the fact that over the past three days, he hadn’t been taking the hits of heroine that Euan had arranged for him. The first couple of doses, Euan had injected for him, but then in a calculated move, Noah told him he was fine to do it himself, only to stop taking it entirely. He had it stashed away in his backpack with a single syringe, shoved right down to the bottom. It would mean he could have a bigger hit once he was out of this place and with the Vicodin, it could help him kick this fucking pneumonia and get out of these poor peoples’ hair once and for all. At least, so he convinced himself.
But it meant that his body was entering the first stages of withdrawal. So much so that the sleeves of his leather jacket were dragged over deep bloodied scratches up his arms where he had been raking his nails over his own skin to try to stop the terrible crawling sensation getting worse beneath his skin. His scalped was bleeding too, where he had twisted and clawed at his hair when the follicles felt like they were on fire. He had to get out of here. All the things they wanted to do for him, he couldn’t accept it. He was nothing, and if he failed once he started, it would mean he was fucking them over. Didn’t they fucking get it?! He was a fucking junkie! This was what he did, and up until he got the fucking pneumonia, he was doing just fine.
He started to cough, but planted the crook of his elbow over his mouth to stifle it until he could at least get it under control. He was sweating heavily, and didn’t even care that it was raining outside. That would cool him down. The rain was fun! It could be fun. It had to be fun. A small sneer of a smirk flickered at the corners of his lips as he furtively looked from the door to the pills on the nightstand. He scooped them up and poured them into his mouth, washing them all down with a swallow from the bottle of water.
He did want to get better. He did. He just couldn’t this way. The disappointment and disgust on his family’s faces still burned through his mind, a harsh and daily reminder of why he was here in the first place. He couldn’t handle another family looking at him like that. These people were better folks than his own family would ever be, and as much as he wanted to promise them he would slaughter all this, he couldn’t. He was going to fail. It was inevitable. So may as well get out while he could and stop fooling himself that he had a hope in hell of winning the losing battle. He needed the drugs. He was okay as long as he had them. He would be okay. He didn’t need the help, not really. Other people needed it way more than he did...
He quietly pulled the window open of the guest room, looking out into the heavily raining night. He picked up his guitar case, leaning out the window and placing it carefully on the ground first. After that, he zipped his jacket up and climbed out the window and then pulled it closed behind him. It didn’t take long for his hair to get wet and he scraped it back out of his face, once again twisting his fingers into it. He tried to shrug back the haunting slicing feeling all over his skin that was getting worse and worse as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He put one between his lips and when he was searching for his lighter, hurried up the side path of Julie’s home and ran out onto the street.
Now if he failed, it would only be his own disappointment and disgust he saw looking back at him whenever he forced himself to look into a mirror, standing there with a needle poised against his vein, and face the lowlife junkie scum he had become.
It was less than half an hour later that he was losing his breath scaling down the stairs into the subway. In his weakened distracted state, he got jumped from behind by two large guys in hoodies, who stole his guitar and bag before roughly pushing him down the stairs where he fell sprawled at the bottom, unconscious and not breathing.
Noah Cameron :: Original Character
adj. 1. Stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or course of action. “Despite her plea, he remained obdurate.”
There had to be a word that reached above and beyond reckless stupidity, but Noah couldn’t think of it right now. In fact, he wasn’t thinking straight at all. If there was something he had been for days now, it was subdued and somewhat emotionless. It was because he had been extensively humbled and shocked by the help he had been offered, and also too sick to do much else. He wanted to follow through, he really did. At first he did. But he got so far, and the panic began to set in. He was being a burden to these strangers. They had gone above and beyond to help him.
He didn’t deserve it.
No one could say he had a rational mindset these days. He was an addict, of course he didn’t. Not even close. He had been getting treatment for the pneumonia, antibiotics and Vicodin for the pain. The antibiotics he had been taking obediently, but the Vicodin? He had been cheeking every dose and in the dim room as he quietly pulled on his jeans and leather jacket, there was a mottled pile of pills sitting on the nightstand beside a half-empty bottle of water. He was jumpy and on edge at every little sound, harassed and blood-shot blue eyes constantly flicking to the closed over door, paranoid someone was going to come in at any minute.
It wasn’t just the Vicodin he was about to make a harsh mistake with. There was also the fact that over the past three days, he hadn’t been taking the hits of heroine that Euan had arranged for him. The first couple of doses, Euan had injected for him, but then in a calculated move, Noah told him he was fine to do it himself, only to stop taking it entirely. He had it stashed away in his backpack with a single syringe, shoved right down to the bottom. It would mean he could have a bigger hit once he was out of this place and with the Vicodin, it could help him kick this fucking pneumonia and get out of these poor peoples’ hair once and for all. At least, so he convinced himself.
But it meant that his body was entering the first stages of withdrawal. So much so that the sleeves of his leather jacket were dragged over deep bloodied scratches up his arms where he had been raking his nails over his own skin to try to stop the terrible crawling sensation getting worse beneath his skin. His scalped was bleeding too, where he had twisted and clawed at his hair when the follicles felt like they were on fire. He had to get out of here. All the things they wanted to do for him, he couldn’t accept it. He was nothing, and if he failed once he started, it would mean he was fucking them over. Didn’t they fucking get it?! He was a fucking junkie! This was what he did, and up until he got the fucking pneumonia, he was doing just fine.
He started to cough, but planted the crook of his elbow over his mouth to stifle it until he could at least get it under control. He was sweating heavily, and didn’t even care that it was raining outside. That would cool him down. The rain was fun! It could be fun. It had to be fun. A small sneer of a smirk flickered at the corners of his lips as he furtively looked from the door to the pills on the nightstand. He scooped them up and poured them into his mouth, washing them all down with a swallow from the bottle of water.
He did want to get better. He did. He just couldn’t this way. The disappointment and disgust on his family’s faces still burned through his mind, a harsh and daily reminder of why he was here in the first place. He couldn’t handle another family looking at him like that. These people were better folks than his own family would ever be, and as much as he wanted to promise them he would slaughter all this, he couldn’t. He was going to fail. It was inevitable. So may as well get out while he could and stop fooling himself that he had a hope in hell of winning the losing battle. He needed the drugs. He was okay as long as he had them. He would be okay. He didn’t need the help, not really. Other people needed it way more than he did...
He quietly pulled the window open of the guest room, looking out into the heavily raining night. He picked up his guitar case, leaning out the window and placing it carefully on the ground first. After that, he zipped his jacket up and climbed out the window and then pulled it closed behind him. It didn’t take long for his hair to get wet and he scraped it back out of his face, once again twisting his fingers into it. He tried to shrug back the haunting slicing feeling all over his skin that was getting worse and worse as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He put one between his lips and when he was searching for his lighter, hurried up the side path of Julie’s home and ran out onto the street.
Now if he failed, it would only be his own disappointment and disgust he saw looking back at him whenever he forced himself to look into a mirror, standing there with a needle poised against his vein, and face the lowlife junkie scum he had become.
It was less than half an hour later that he was losing his breath scaling down the stairs into the subway. In his weakened distracted state, he got jumped from behind by two large guys in hoodies, who stole his guitar and bag before roughly pushing him down the stairs where he fell sprawled at the bottom, unconscious and not breathing.
Noah Cameron :: Original Character