Audemus Dawnspark

1. Dinner

Dinner is fine. Enjoyable, even. Two glasses of water he’d wished were rum, mechanical consumption of a blackened mackerel fillet on a bed of rice, even a stolen taste of the grilled peach and sweet potato salad that wasn't his. The balsamic drenched bite had earned him a familiar look — warm affection muddled with fake annoyance — but tinged with just a taste of something far more souring. Pity? Sympathy? Understanding?

He'd like nothing more than to bite the expression off of those lips.

Or is it the pain talking?

Yes, maybe so. That's the easily digestible answer — just like the diet of bland rice and toast suggested (imposed) upon him to average out the nauseous highs and lows of his strictly regulated medicine intake.

Regulated.

Controlled?

The opiate tincture feels heavy in his pocket.

It's not.

He has been granted permission to take it. Doesn't want that, no. Not permission. Just wants to be whole again. The scales have tipped. He's tipping, too, can feel the steady chant of want want want that sings a sweet siren song in the back of his brain, same tune as the pulsing ache in his shoulder that never quite goes away, but could. Just needs a little bit more.

But, there is dinner instead. Which, really, is fine. 

Everything’s fine.