Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-06-26 09:09 am
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-06-26 09:09 am
He carefully unscrewed the lid and gave it a little sniff, and found it smelled vaguely like lemon
Everything went exactly as planned. Wilford would have been more pleased about this fact if he weren’t on so many drugs he couldn’t feel his face. They made him stay overnight anyway, because he did have a surgery of these things not going well, though he would have argued that the last time was an extreme extenuating circumstance - if he hadn’t been on so many drugs he couldn’t feel his face.
It was a private room this time, which even in his current state Wilford was able to appreciate. He spent most of the night in various stages of unconsciousness before Billy finally came back in the morning to take him home. Once through the door, Wilford made it as far as the sofa before carefully collapsing again and passing out again.
It was a familiar sensation. He hadn’t liked it last time, and he didn’t like it this time. He was aware there was an intense amount of pain, but the drugs made everything so uncomfortably fuzzy and numb he didn’t know which parts of himself he needed to be careful about. He had an idea, but until the morphine wore off, there was no real way to tell.
The next time he woke there was a weight on his chest. A physical, bony weight, complete with a bony dog elbow digging into his ribs. Suddenly, the dog just disappeared.
“Come on, buddy.”
Wilford opened his eyes and blearily looked up to see Billy lifting the dog up and carrying it a few paces away before putting it down again.
“I didn’t tell you to do that,” Wilford complained. Even to his ears, it came out as a single, slurred sound. The morphine was long gone, so he tested how much range of motion he had in his jaw. The answer was not much. The entire lower half of his face hurt — bone, muscle, teeth. Wait, why teeth? He suddenly realised he was missing some front teeth on the bottom. They had discussed that was a possibility before going in, and he vaguely recalled the surgeon mentioning teeth after he got out. Goddamnit. He’d been hoping to avoid that.
Buster came back to whine quietly at Wilford, so he reached out and tugged on one of the dog’s ears. Buster licked his hand.
“Here. Happy birthday,” Billy said, handing Wilford a shoebox.
“I don’t need shoes,” Wilford said.
Still, he opened the box and peered inside. There were no shoes. There were boxes of nicotine patches, and little glass bottles. He picked up one of the bottles and tried to read it, but the print was unbearably tiny. He found his glasses on the coffee table, next to the pill bottle he intended to ignore, and put them on to read the label. Since when did Phat Panda do tinctures? He carefully unscrewed the lid and gave it a little sniff, and found it smelled vaguely like lemon. If nothing else, he’d be sleeping well this week. He put the tincture back in its place and tore open one of the nicotine boxes instead, sparing maybe three seconds to read the instructions before he slapped one of the patches on his arm.
Hopefully by the time he ran out, he’d be coherent enough to go get his own.
“Nick’ll be here at seven,” Billy said. “You gonna be okay on your own until then, or should I stick around?”
Wilford waved a vague hand in Billy’s direction, and then pointed at the patio door. “Open it for the dog,” he said. Mumble, mumble, mumble.
Billy apparently got the gist anyway, because he walked into the kitchen to open the door so the dog could come and go as he pleased. “See you tomorrow,” he said, letting himself out through the door he’d just opened. Buster followed him out, leaving Wilford alone to his own misery.
It was a private room this time, which even in his current state Wilford was able to appreciate. He spent most of the night in various stages of unconsciousness before Billy finally came back in the morning to take him home. Once through the door, Wilford made it as far as the sofa before carefully collapsing again and passing out again.
It was a familiar sensation. He hadn’t liked it last time, and he didn’t like it this time. He was aware there was an intense amount of pain, but the drugs made everything so uncomfortably fuzzy and numb he didn’t know which parts of himself he needed to be careful about. He had an idea, but until the morphine wore off, there was no real way to tell.
The next time he woke there was a weight on his chest. A physical, bony weight, complete with a bony dog elbow digging into his ribs. Suddenly, the dog just disappeared.
“Come on, buddy.”
Wilford opened his eyes and blearily looked up to see Billy lifting the dog up and carrying it a few paces away before putting it down again.
“I didn’t tell you to do that,” Wilford complained. Even to his ears, it came out as a single, slurred sound. The morphine was long gone, so he tested how much range of motion he had in his jaw. The answer was not much. The entire lower half of his face hurt — bone, muscle, teeth. Wait, why teeth? He suddenly realised he was missing some front teeth on the bottom. They had discussed that was a possibility before going in, and he vaguely recalled the surgeon mentioning teeth after he got out. Goddamnit. He’d been hoping to avoid that.
Buster came back to whine quietly at Wilford, so he reached out and tugged on one of the dog’s ears. Buster licked his hand.
“Here. Happy birthday,” Billy said, handing Wilford a shoebox.
“I don’t need shoes,” Wilford said.
Still, he opened the box and peered inside. There were no shoes. There were boxes of nicotine patches, and little glass bottles. He picked up one of the bottles and tried to read it, but the print was unbearably tiny. He found his glasses on the coffee table, next to the pill bottle he intended to ignore, and put them on to read the label. Since when did Phat Panda do tinctures? He carefully unscrewed the lid and gave it a little sniff, and found it smelled vaguely like lemon. If nothing else, he’d be sleeping well this week. He put the tincture back in its place and tore open one of the nicotine boxes instead, sparing maybe three seconds to read the instructions before he slapped one of the patches on his arm.
Hopefully by the time he ran out, he’d be coherent enough to go get his own.
“Nick’ll be here at seven,” Billy said. “You gonna be okay on your own until then, or should I stick around?”
Wilford waved a vague hand in Billy’s direction, and then pointed at the patio door. “Open it for the dog,” he said. Mumble, mumble, mumble.
Billy apparently got the gist anyway, because he walked into the kitchen to open the door so the dog could come and go as he pleased. “See you tomorrow,” he said, letting himself out through the door he’d just opened. Buster followed him out, leaving Wilford alone to his own misery.