Kip Everett Pryor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
niceguysfinishlast) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2017-01-08 11:58 pm
niceguysfinishlast) wrote in muserevival2017-01-08 11:58 pm
Entry tags:
137.2. Quote
"Drugs made me feel more normal." - Carrie Fisher
Kip had spent about the last week, give or take, wanting to be dead. He was convinced death had to be easier than the nightmare he was trying to keep living through. Worst part of all, he knew he had no one to blame but himself. He was the dickhead who got hooked on drugs and booze too young - or at all - and he was the one who had done nothing up to this point to try to get help. Even now, it was less about actively getting help and more having no choice but to take it.
Detox was hell. It was living, breathing hell on earth. No amount of Googling, or information leaflets, or verbals warnings could have prepared him for it, because none of those were enough of an accurate outline for him to know what it would feel like. This was the sickest, weakest, and most useless he had ever felt in his life. That was saying a lot, considering how often he wrote himself off with cheap shit booze and spent many a day hungover. At least he could sleep through that. He couldn't sleep through this. The pain was too agonising. He could get comfortable, and he ended up camped out in the bathroom frequently. There was no magical miracle pill he could pop to take the edge off. Even if there was, like anyone was going to let him fight substance detox by giving him another fucking substance.
What he knew was that if he had been left alone with this, or even simply left with Garrett, he would be dead. He would've done whatever it took to end the pain and agony. Or he would've ran out and gotten his hands on the nearest thing that could give him a hit. That was exactly why he hadn't been able to be left alone. But why was he even letting it happen? Because he was terrified of the alternative. He was terrified he would end up like Noah; a dude not that much older than him who was on life support and could die from shit like this.
Kip didn't realise he was claustrophobic until he was being sucked into an MRI machine. There was no stopping his complete freakout once he was in that tube that felt like a coffin. It was narrow, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He didn't understand why the fuck he even had to be at the hospital, let alone having shit like this done to him. First, it was a doctor's appointment, because Clint said it was the non-dumbshit thing to do, getting checked out to make sure he hadn't done any long-term damage.
And why? Of course that was Kip's first question. Only, in a much more aggressive, wankerish way because everything was pissing him off at the moment. The sky was too blue, the tea was too hot, the soup was too gross (probably because he was sickened of it having puked so much of it up), people's voices were too loud, rooms were too big or too small, blankets too heavy. It was an endless list. Yet one more fucking terrible effect of a body withdrawing from drugs. You not only hated yourself, but you hated everyone else too. There was nothing nice, happy, sweet, romantic, about this. It was horrible, he had turned into a nasty bitch, and he didn't want anyone taking care of him.
Clint's response? Tough fucking shit, and he could suck it up or he would put him on a fuck morgue slab personally. He was going, or he was going to get him arrested for illegal drug use, because Clint had connections, and he would plant some shit on Kip to pull it off. Kip had no idea if he was just calling his bluff. Hence why he had ended up at this doctor's appointment. That turned into a hospital appointment, and then ending up in a coffin under the guise of a fucking medical imaging machine.
In the end, just because he was having so much fun already, they gave him a shot of something in the ass which settled himself enough to get through the MRI. Why the fuck did they want to scan his brain? Did they not realise he barely had one? And whatever was there, it was full of dumb shit. He couldn't even read. They gave him this consent form to sign, and he just looked at the words on the page, and signed his life away. For all he knew, he could've been signing over the rights to sell his vital organs on eBay. Good luck to the recipients, was all he could think.
But boil down the aggression and arced up mood from feeling as horrible as he was, Kip was just plain scared. What if he really was dying? He didn't actually want to die. That was why he forced himself up to this cliff, looking over the edge like he was ready to jump. Had all this been for nothing? For some quack in a lab coat to tell him he was going to drop dead anyway? The story he had been fed was that he was young, he was an adolescent who had been substance abusing long-term, and if you did that when you were young and your brain was still developing, there was a much higher risk he had done long-term damage. It wasn't all stereotypical bad boy image, throwing around how much of a tough guy he was because he snorted H and constantly had a joint on him. He may have actually damaged his brain from being an adolescent user.
What the fuck did that mean? None of this had been what he planned. He fell into the shit by accident when he just wanted to switch off the guilt for causing Shannon's injury. Now what? He was brain damaged? Is that what they were saying? The doctor had hit the nail on the head. Rather than asking him what he had been thinking in using drugs young, despite all the warnings, he had gently told Kip he was going to wager a bet that Kip just wasn't thinking at all when he started. No shit, Dr. Sherlock. That was the whole point of drugs and booze. To stop thinking.
Still, in this tube, Kip felt weird. His arm twitched and he was feeling like his insides were trying to jump out of his skin.
"Try to stay still for me, Kip. Are you doing okay in there?" the radiographer asked him through the headphones he had on that had been blasting Black Veil Brides music through it to try to distract him.
"I am. Fuck. Are you done yet? I want to get out of here."
"Not much longer now. You're doing really well," she chirped to him. Kip suddenly felt like he was being toilet-trained with the tone she was using. Why was everyone so fucking cheerful?
He was staring at the ceiling of the tube, feeling like it was getting closer and closer to his face. That was it. It was going to crush him. Like some scene out of a horror film. Contrary to the asshole mood he was in, he really was trying to do what he was told here. The noises just felt like they were getting louder and louder, and the music had turned into an unrecognisable mess in his ears. The light was bright, it was roasting. He felt like he was in an oven.
"Uh... I don't feel good. I need to stop..."
"Kip? We're going to get you out, okay? You just need to stay with..." The words were swallowed up. They were muffled, like he was being talked to under water and bright lights started to flash in his eyes. That was the last thing he was aware of, and then... nothing.
+ KIP PRYOR (oc)
Kip had spent about the last week, give or take, wanting to be dead. He was convinced death had to be easier than the nightmare he was trying to keep living through. Worst part of all, he knew he had no one to blame but himself. He was the dickhead who got hooked on drugs and booze too young - or at all - and he was the one who had done nothing up to this point to try to get help. Even now, it was less about actively getting help and more having no choice but to take it.
Detox was hell. It was living, breathing hell on earth. No amount of Googling, or information leaflets, or verbals warnings could have prepared him for it, because none of those were enough of an accurate outline for him to know what it would feel like. This was the sickest, weakest, and most useless he had ever felt in his life. That was saying a lot, considering how often he wrote himself off with cheap shit booze and spent many a day hungover. At least he could sleep through that. He couldn't sleep through this. The pain was too agonising. He could get comfortable, and he ended up camped out in the bathroom frequently. There was no magical miracle pill he could pop to take the edge off. Even if there was, like anyone was going to let him fight substance detox by giving him another fucking substance.
What he knew was that if he had been left alone with this, or even simply left with Garrett, he would be dead. He would've done whatever it took to end the pain and agony. Or he would've ran out and gotten his hands on the nearest thing that could give him a hit. That was exactly why he hadn't been able to be left alone. But why was he even letting it happen? Because he was terrified of the alternative. He was terrified he would end up like Noah; a dude not that much older than him who was on life support and could die from shit like this.
Kip didn't realise he was claustrophobic until he was being sucked into an MRI machine. There was no stopping his complete freakout once he was in that tube that felt like a coffin. It was narrow, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He didn't understand why the fuck he even had to be at the hospital, let alone having shit like this done to him. First, it was a doctor's appointment, because Clint said it was the non-dumbshit thing to do, getting checked out to make sure he hadn't done any long-term damage.
And why? Of course that was Kip's first question. Only, in a much more aggressive, wankerish way because everything was pissing him off at the moment. The sky was too blue, the tea was too hot, the soup was too gross (probably because he was sickened of it having puked so much of it up), people's voices were too loud, rooms were too big or too small, blankets too heavy. It was an endless list. Yet one more fucking terrible effect of a body withdrawing from drugs. You not only hated yourself, but you hated everyone else too. There was nothing nice, happy, sweet, romantic, about this. It was horrible, he had turned into a nasty bitch, and he didn't want anyone taking care of him.
Clint's response? Tough fucking shit, and he could suck it up or he would put him on a fuck morgue slab personally. He was going, or he was going to get him arrested for illegal drug use, because Clint had connections, and he would plant some shit on Kip to pull it off. Kip had no idea if he was just calling his bluff. Hence why he had ended up at this doctor's appointment. That turned into a hospital appointment, and then ending up in a coffin under the guise of a fucking medical imaging machine.
In the end, just because he was having so much fun already, they gave him a shot of something in the ass which settled himself enough to get through the MRI. Why the fuck did they want to scan his brain? Did they not realise he barely had one? And whatever was there, it was full of dumb shit. He couldn't even read. They gave him this consent form to sign, and he just looked at the words on the page, and signed his life away. For all he knew, he could've been signing over the rights to sell his vital organs on eBay. Good luck to the recipients, was all he could think.
But boil down the aggression and arced up mood from feeling as horrible as he was, Kip was just plain scared. What if he really was dying? He didn't actually want to die. That was why he forced himself up to this cliff, looking over the edge like he was ready to jump. Had all this been for nothing? For some quack in a lab coat to tell him he was going to drop dead anyway? The story he had been fed was that he was young, he was an adolescent who had been substance abusing long-term, and if you did that when you were young and your brain was still developing, there was a much higher risk he had done long-term damage. It wasn't all stereotypical bad boy image, throwing around how much of a tough guy he was because he snorted H and constantly had a joint on him. He may have actually damaged his brain from being an adolescent user.
What the fuck did that mean? None of this had been what he planned. He fell into the shit by accident when he just wanted to switch off the guilt for causing Shannon's injury. Now what? He was brain damaged? Is that what they were saying? The doctor had hit the nail on the head. Rather than asking him what he had been thinking in using drugs young, despite all the warnings, he had gently told Kip he was going to wager a bet that Kip just wasn't thinking at all when he started. No shit, Dr. Sherlock. That was the whole point of drugs and booze. To stop thinking.
Still, in this tube, Kip felt weird. His arm twitched and he was feeling like his insides were trying to jump out of his skin.
"Try to stay still for me, Kip. Are you doing okay in there?" the radiographer asked him through the headphones he had on that had been blasting Black Veil Brides music through it to try to distract him.
"I am. Fuck. Are you done yet? I want to get out of here."
"Not much longer now. You're doing really well," she chirped to him. Kip suddenly felt like he was being toilet-trained with the tone she was using. Why was everyone so fucking cheerful?
He was staring at the ceiling of the tube, feeling like it was getting closer and closer to his face. That was it. It was going to crush him. Like some scene out of a horror film. Contrary to the asshole mood he was in, he really was trying to do what he was told here. The noises just felt like they were getting louder and louder, and the music had turned into an unrecognisable mess in his ears. The light was bright, it was roasting. He felt like he was in an oven.
"Uh... I don't feel good. I need to stop..."
"Kip? We're going to get you out, okay? You just need to stay with..." The words were swallowed up. They were muffled, like he was being talked to under water and bright lights started to flash in his eyes. That was the last thing he was aware of, and then... nothing.
+ KIP PRYOR (oc)