Past

*trigger warning: discussion of suicide*

I woke up with a pounding headache and throbbing pain over the rest of my body. Last night was a mistake. One I honestly couldn't really remember after I passed out on the floor. Wait, there was a vague memory of me throwing up.

And how did I get into my bed?

I sat up and looked at the floor in front of my closed bedroom door. It was clean, and even smelled faintly of cleaning products in here.

"What the hell?" I whispered as I pulled myself to the edge of the bed and hung my feet towards the ground, facing the bathroom. Looking there, I now had memories in there too. Of throwing up into the toilet, of crying...

Fuck.

"I... just... died... didn't I?" I asked, staring into his eyes.

"You stopped breathing, yes." Esmond responded.

So I had enough brainpower to call someone to help me. That was a positive. But why the fuck did I call him? I stood up and went to the bathroom to do my basic morning routine. There was no way I could do the full one. I then walked out to the kitchen, where I found the six-foot-two man rummaging through my upper cupboards without his heels even leaving the ground.

Fucking asshole.

"What?" I heard him ask, which was when I realised I had spoken those two words out loud.

"Nothing."

"Really? Because it sounded like-"

"You are reaching into my upper cupboards like... like..."

"Like I have a solid 8 inches on you?" He responded. I screwed up my face at the comment.

"What are you even looking for?" I asked, realising that maybe I should make up for last night. He literally saved my life, and it was the fourth time we had spoken. Fuck, why did I call him?

"Well, I didn't sleep last night because I was making sure that you didn't stop breathing again and then I saw your coffee machine but I can't find the damn pods for it anywhere and it's cruel because it's right there and-"

Wow. He needed some sleep.

"You're thinking like a tall person." I said, wandering over and opening the skinny drawer that was hidden underneath the lip of the countertop. The drawer that was filled to the brim with coffee pods because I also couldn't live without it.

"Oh..."

"Yeah." The drawer was next to the stove. Another skinny drawer was on the other side, too. They were both shallow, and I assumed they meant to be spice drawers, but I found a better use for this one. I let him make himself a coffee. I was still dizzy and nauseous, so I decided it was probably best to pass on the caffeine. Instead, I jumped up to sit on the countertop, the cool granite helping to settle my rushing blood.

"I was making you food." He said after the toaster popped, a plate was already next to the toaster.

"I'm not hungry." I replied, which was genuine. Along with my genuine confusion about what the fuck was going on.

"It's just toast with butter, thought it might be all you could stomach, but you need to eat something. And start drinking water. We need to get your fluids up." He said as he pulled the butter out of the fridge and buttered the toast, putting the two slices on the plate and handing it to me. He then grabbed a glass and got me a cup of water, too. I would be worried about why he knew where everything was if I hadn't come out to him rummaging through my kitchen.

"Are you going to have something?" He took a sip of his coffee, which he took black, unlike when we went to the cafe. Maybe he had ordered the same drink as me back then for a reason, to make me trust him. To make me think we had similarities. Fuck, and it had worked.

"I already did..." He pointed to the empty bowl in the sink.

"You ate the last of my Coco Pops." It wasn't a question. There had only been enough left for one or two bowls, and it was the only cereal I bought.

"I'll buy you some more." He said with a smile, and I gulped. How fucking rude was I? He saved my life, and I was here, complaining he ate the last of my Coco Pops while I had a glass of water in one hand and food in the other, both of which he gave to me.

"Thank you." I said, realising that I only said it once last night. Once wasn't enough.

"For what?" He asked me. I grimaced.

"For helping me last night. I called you because... I don't have many people I trust. Even though you've lied to me, you are one of the few I feel I can hand my life over to. I would have called Jake, but Birmingham is too far away." I realised he was just staring at me.

"Jake?" He asked. "You said his name last night."

"I did?" He nodded. "Oh, I um..."

"Is he..." He trailed off, and it confused me about why he asked that.

"No, not that it's any of your concern. He's my closest friend, one that I haven't spoken to in a very long time. I must have said his name last night because if I died..." I would never have spoken with him again. The last time we spoke was rushed, barely a few sentences of me making sure he was okay because I checked the cameras and he wasn't home. And I hung up because he started yelling, saying I was relying on the drugs, that I had to stop being paranoid and try to get back to my normal self again.

He had been right, of course, but it still hurt to hear him say it.

"He's a friend you can't risk." Esmond said, remembering our conversation over coffee.

"Queen keeps me dependent on fentanyl, not just for control, but to keep my mind hazy. I can't think straight on it because I'm too focused on the serotonin, the euphoria. I depend on it to feel joy now..." I trailed off.

"Why did you overdose?"

I lifted my eyes to meet his and took a sharp breath. "It was an accident-"

"I don't believe that for a second. You don't seem like the type that accidentally overdoses on a drug they've been using for years." He said. I took a deep breath.

"Fine. It wasn't an accident." I had to look away from his eyes. Maybe it was easy to open up to him because I barely knew him. He didn't know me either, so it didn't matter if he judged me. "I took enough that the police would see it as accidental, but I knew it would kill me without help." I admitted as I jumped off of the countertop.

"Sierra-"

"Do you know how much shit I've gone through? I cut everyone I love off to work for Queen to keep them safe. My family abandoned me years before then because they didn't like me street racing. The accident still wakes me up at night, covered in sweat. You happened. It was getting too much. Especially after that argument with Jake, I didn't know how to come back and I've been spiralling for months, letting it get out of control and I just wanted to stop my brain. I just wanted some quiet. The fentanyl wasn't making my head quiet anymore." I said, leaning on the countertop with both of my hands and staring out the window.

"I thought about how using fentanyl stopped me from thinking right, how I couldn't keep my stories straight to stay in contact with people and lie to Queen about it. Then I realised my dependence on fentanyl, which Jake had been telling me for years and you fucking told me too. I'm by myself, and I didn't see the point anymore in trying because it all just seems to get worse. But then I collapsed on the floor and..." I felt my eyes stinging as I cried again.

"I panicked."