Baby Barton

Chapter 79 Chloe Barton

-Authors note-
TW- very graphic descriptions about withdrawal from drugs, and suicide references.
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It burns, your skin is on fire, every inch of it excruciates with every breath you take.  So you try not to breathe.
"Open the door..." you cry weakly, tapping it gently. The small movements almost paralysing you.
"I...I can't." Bucky fumbles sheepishly at the other side.
The painfully pathetic voice agonising you like vinegar being rubbed into open wounds.

You prise open your eyes, you must have passed out.  You wake in a pool of your own vomit, the yellow bile dried and crusted around your nose and mouth.  The smell of bodily fluids circling the air, forcing you to retch. You need to get out of here.  Just one little hit and everything will be alright.  You wont hurt any more.
But he gets to stand out there in freedom deciding whats right for you, while you suffer in here.  Dying, surrounded by puddles of your own diarrhoea.  And its all because of him.  You had done so well, you were sober.  And now you are here wearing your nails down to the quick scratching at floor boards begging for drugs in urine soaked pants.
"Open the door." you slam your fist on the solid wood door.
Silence.
"open the fucking door, please." You slam again.
If he doesn't let you out of here you will kick this fucking down.  You truly believe you have the strength to do it.

"OPEN THE DOOR!!!!" you screech rasping your throat raw.

You take your head and bash it against the wooden panels, banging both of your fists as hard as you can, bursting the skin.  A short welcomed distraction from the lava that courses through your veins. 

"Open the door, open the door, open the door!!!!"

The blood splatters back onto your face.  Fuck him.

You lay flat on the ground peeking under the door, searching for a glimpse of him. Bucky sits on a scabby mattress on the floor, his head hanging guiltily in his hands.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, "I can't."

The hell he cant.  He fucking put you here. He has the key, if he had any remorse about what he done to you then he would let you the fuck out!
You just need a little something just to take the edge off the pain and he can give it to you. So why doesn't he just open the fucking door!?

You crack the back of your fist on the door again the flat, hard packing sound weakening as you lose the will to fight. The pain of withdrawal never subsiding, it's sharp and nagging, just when you think its going to get better it shoots through every inch of you, rendering you useless, its coupled with agonising stomach cramps, and you can never tell if its vomit or diarrhoea or both. This time its both.  You run to a bucket, the closest one you can get to and squat.  The liquid running from you as the smell assaults your nasal cavity.  You reach for another bucket and expel bile into it.  Yellow and foamy tasting like chemicals.  Your ribs ache, tired of supporting you. 

Rage builds inside of you, your dignity lost to drugs once more.  And all because of him. Racing to the door you pound your fists perpetually on the wood, you kick you scream.  And he ignores you.

You begin to sob uncontrollably.  Enraged sobs.  The kind that come when you are so utterly frustrated, the last sobs before you give up. You inhale deeply, a howling rasp builds inside your corrupted lungs.

"You did this to me.." wailing as your hammering fists slow, "you fucking..." you gasp between cries for more breath, "you did this to me." You slide down onto your knees digging whats left of your nails into the wood, sharp splinters getting stuck underneath.

You hear the floorboard outside of the door creak but you are too weak to care.  He just needs to give you something, anything to take the edge off this searing itch. Or do the humane thing and snap your neck.  Put you out of your misery.  Let you die. 

Lying on your back as the next wave of cramps takes over you try to squeeze your fingers through the gap under the door, "you fucking ruined my life." You whine as tears soften the crusted bile around your nostril and the mixture of tears, snot and vomit runs down your face into your mouth, "the least you can do is open the goddamn door and fix it!!" your voice picks up as you scream through the excruciating pain. Expelling your guts once more, but instead you lie on your back hoping that it will suffocate you.  Wishing for it to be the end.

Your traitorous body instinctively forces you to turn your head and the bile soaks into the wooden floor.  You cant even do that right.  Enraged once more you reach for the nearest bucket and throw it against the door, the stomach churning mixture of contents painted across the wooden cell door and plasters the walls.

"I'm fucking serious..." your voice croaks as you reach for a second bucket, "I'm so fucking serious!" you get to your feet and threaten to launch it as well, "if you don't open this door right now I swear to god Bucky I will hate you, till the day I fucking die." The bucket slides out of your weak hands, you don't have it in you to go on any more.  It clatters to the ground soaking your bare feet in your own filth.

Pain in every part of your body, over whelming frothing pain.  Tears falls burning your eyes and cheeks.  You fall to your knees, pleading to be let go.

Just as you instructed day three has been the worst.  The hardest thing Bucky has ever done is keeping that door locked.  He is taken over by the guilt of what he has done to you. Making himself listen to every word, every painful sob.  Penance for his crimes against you.