PETE'S POV
I feel like shit.
I'm tired, sweaty and absolutely starving. I need to fucking eat something. I need MY DRUGS!
My stomach hates me. I haven't puked yet but I've been retching over the toilet. I started sweating about an hour ago. It's an uncomfortable, cold sweat. What time is it? The small window in the bathroom tells me it's dark outside – how late is it? Is it evening, night or morning?
I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep. I've been rolling around on the cold white tiles for the past few minutes. My skin is burning up but freezing at the same time. Speed would make this so much better. Where the fuck is Andrew? He's been gone since this morning. He better have my drugs.
I hold back a groan of frustration. I NEED MY DRUGS! I haven't taken any today and it's starting to show. I'm gonna die...I'm gonna fucking die without them!
I roll over. My eye pencil is lying on the floor beside the sink. I'm definitely not in the mood for a makeover, and I don't have the energy, but maybe I can draw something to take my mind off this shitty feeling. I reach out and pick up my eye pencil with a shaking hand. I get up and kneel in front of the white tiled wall. What should I draw? How can I take my mind off this craving? Just draw anything. Be impulsive, Pete. Go for it. And whatever you do, DON'T think of your drugs...
FUCK IT. I can't stop thinking of my drugs and how much I need them. Fuck, I can't think, fuck, FUCK...
I find myself writing FUCK on the wall in front of me. I write it again. And again. And again. And again. I keep writing it over and over, but stop myself when I think of Patrick. I never thought it possible, but he feels for me. He would hate to see me like this, and writing the F word over and over isn't going to solve anything.
But he's not here.
I continue writing F words on the wall. There's nothing else to do. Nothing else.
I need my drugs...