Page 128 of The Prodigal Son

I’ve never felt so tired in my life. My limbs feel like lead and I have to fight to keep my eyes open. There’s a doctor shining a light in my eyes, and my throat burns like I’ve recently swallowed fire. A machine beeps somewhere in the room, and I glance around to see my mother hovering nearby. Her eyes are rimmed with red and she’s holding a tissue under her nose. My dad is behind her, looking concerned and slightly angry.

I just want to go back to sleep.

“He’ll be transferred to the psych unit for monitoring,” the doctor says to someone else. Like I’m not lying right here—like I’m a child. “But vitals are strong, and I don’t see any signs of liver or kidney failure.”

“Thank God,” my mother mumbles as she starts to cry again.

“Mr. Miles, can you hear me?” he asks.

I grumble, fighting the urge to close my eyes again. As he talks, telling me what I’ve done as if I don’t fucking remember, I try to replay everything in my mind.

“You’ve ingested a near-lethal dose of diazepam, causing respiratory depression. We’ve administered an antidote, but we have to keep you here for your safety. Once you’re cleared, the psych unit can speak to you about discharge options.”

I nod, feeling shame creep up my spine.

It was still dark out when I made the decision. I remember thinking that it would just be better if I could just go back to bed and never wake up. It would be that easy. No more pain. No more memories. Just quiet.

Then I went to bed. As I lay there, feeling the effects slowly take over, I thought about Isaac. I wanted him to be my last thought. Our good times. Then, I distinctly remember the moment I changed my mind. I recalled all the promises I made him. Promises to never leave. To always be there for him, no matter what. How could I break those promises? How could I do this to him? I scrambled from my bed to the bathroom in a panic. I sobbed on the bathroom floor as I tried to expel every one of those pills from my body. By that point, I was too far gone to call 911. That’s when everything got blurry.

“Isaac,” I say with my voice like gravel.

“What’s that?” the doctor asks.

I don’t respond as I piece together moments from this morning. He was there. He was in my house. He held me and cried in terror. He called the ambulance.

He saved my life.

“Where’s Isaac?”

“They only let family back, dear,” my mother says as she pats my hand. The sleepiness wears off, and I’m fueled only by adrenaline as I try to sit up. My brow furrows and my nostrils flare.

“What?”

“Relax, Jensen. You can call him when the doctor releases you and we can take you home.”

“Where is he?” I reply with a growl. “He saved my life. Has anyone given him an update?”

The heaviness of the drugs weighs on me and my limbs collapse down onto the bed like lead.

“He should…be here,” I slur breathlessly.

“Sweetheart, you need your rest.” My mom pats my hand and I stare behind her at my dad standing alone. His brows are curved upward, and I give him a pleading expression.

“Please,” I murmur.

When he offers me a subtle nod, I melt into the bed. I’m just so tired. On an exhale, I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

I wake up to the sensation of being punched in the stomach, or at least that’s what it feels like. With the soreness in my muscles, every inhale aches like I’ve never felt before.

Earlier, I had the remnants of a drug-induced high to cover the pain. Now, I’m forced to feel it all. My body revolts, angry at me for what I’ve done. My throat, my head, my lungs, my stomach. All of them are screaming in pain, and I’m forced to endure it all.

I should be grateful for this. Even in agony, at least I’m alive.

Lying in the dim room of the hospital, I feel every ounce of the pain like a sacrament.

With a groan, I lift my head and glance around in search of my mother. But she’s not here. There is, however, a man sleeping on the tiny blue couch next to the window. He’s about twice the size of that sofa, with his blue jeans and boots hanging over the arm. There’s a weathered old cowboy hat covering his face while he sleeps.

I smile to myself at the sight of him. He’s here.

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