Brian Keene - Terminal

“It’s a present your grandma gave me,” I told him, and Michelle turned away, snickering. “What ya’ watching, little man?”

“Justice League Adventures. It’s my new favorite cartoon on Sundays.”

“And who’s that big green guy? The Hulk?”

“No, Daddy, that’s Jonn Jonzz, the Martian Manhunter. He’s getting ready to fight Vandal Savage but…”

I’d known that, of course. I’d been raised on Marvel and DC. Successfully getting him off the subject of his grandmother’s effect on me, I tuned him out, nodding in the appropriate places and expressing dismay over the character’s plight when required. All the while, I searched for the aspirin. I found them, washed four down with my coffee, and resurfaced for air just as T.J. was finishing up.

“…can outrace Superman because Flash is the fastest man on Earth!”

“Cool!” I responded.

Michelle was staring at me. The bacon was draining on a paper-towel-covered plate. The eggs looked just about done.

“What?” I asked.

“How many aspirin did you just take?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Will you please get that prescription filled today? I mean it, Tommy. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It’s Sunday, Michelle. The pharmacy ain’t open on Sunday.”

“Yes it is, and you know it is too. You look like shit, Tommy. Maybe you need to get a second opinion while you’re at it. Whatever you’ve got, it sure as hell isn’t getting any better.”

That’s because it’s growing, I thought. Growing at an alarming rate. In fact, Michelle babe, I’m afraid it’s terminal. And soon, it will be later my niggaz and peace out!

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in defeated surrender. “I’ll go get the prescription filled today. This morning in fact.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” She kissed me on the cheek, gave my hand a squeeze, and flipped the eggs onto a plate.

“Now come eat.”

I looked at the eggs and bacon and wanted to puke again. I felt the bile rise in my throat, burning me, but I fought the urge down and smiled.

“Looks great.” I licked my lips and sat down at the table.

I almost told her the truth then. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed them down again, and the taste was bitter.

“We’ve got to get ready for church,” Michelle said. “Come on, T.J., turn that thing off and go get dressed.”

“Five more minutes,” he negotiated. “It’s almost over.”

“Now,” Michelle countered, “or no ice cream after church. Besides, you’ve seen this one already.”

“I never get to do anything…”

Begrudgingly, he stomped down the hall to his bedroom. Michelle followed along behind him, arguing. As soon as they were gone, I got up, dumped the food into the garbage can, covered it up with paper towels, then changed bags. By the time they were finished, I was washing the dishes and Michelle was none the wiser.

T.J. was wearing his tan Osh Kosh and fraying old sweater, and it reminded me of my nightmare. I shivered, despite the scalding dishwater, as I recalled those cancerous tentacles wrapping around him.

“How was breakfast?” Michelle asked.

“Great.” I smiled. “Bacon was crispy, just the way I like it. Eggs were great too. Thanks for making it.”

“Must have been. You wolfed it down quick enough.”

I nodded and forced another smile.

“Okay, we’ve got to jet. We’re late and Mom’s going to have a fit. Will you be here when we get back?”

“I promised John I’d help him change his timing belt, then I’ll pick up the prescription. Should be home by two or three at the latest.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” She gave me another quick kiss, and I hugged T.J. and told him to have fun. Michelle made a fuss about me getting soapsuds all over his clothes, and T.J. giggled. Then she ushered him out the door.

I stood at the kitchen window and watched them walk down the sidewalk together, hand in hand. I cried. I cried for a long time and used a dishrag to dry both my hands and my face. Then it was off to the bathroom again for another battle with my stomach. This time, it came out both ends, and there was blood in both my vomit and my stool. After about twenty minutes, when I felt like an empty, dried-out bag of skin, I stood up and got on with the business of dying.

The truck didn’t want to start right away. It felt about as healthy as I did. When I finally got it running, I stopped at the big supermarket on Carlisle Street with the pharmacy inside. I had lied to Michelle about my plans. There was nothing wrong with John’s timing belt, and in fact, I didn’t even plan on seeing him all day. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day hanging out with John and Sherm. There were other things that I needed to take care of instead. I had a To Do list for the day…

I walked through the produce section, past the paperback rack and the aisles for bottled soda, potato chips, and pet supplies before I found the pharmacy. There was a big guy behind the counter, dressed in a white lab coat with a name tag that said CASEY. He looked more like a club bouncer than a pharmacist.

“Good morning.” He grinned. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a prescription that I need to get filled. Wasn’t sure you’d be open today, to tell you the truth.”

“Yep, we’re open on Sundays. That’s why I’m stuck here today instead of at home watching the game. People get sick seven days a week. Let’s take a look at your prescription.”

I handed him the crumpled-up piece of white paper. He unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and carefully deciphered the doctor’s handwriting.

“Hmmm, eighty milligrams of OxyContin, to be taken twice daily. Not a problem. Should be about fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“I just need to see your insurance card, and I’ll also need your date of birth.”

I looked down at my feet. “I don’t have any insurance.”

“That’s okay. Lots of people in this town don’t have health insurance.” His voice was still friendly, but his smile had drooped a few notches. “Will you be paying by cash, credit, or debit card?”

“Um, none of them right now,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me how much it was going to be. That way I know how much to set aside for next week.”

He paused, studying me. “Well, eighty milligrams per day, taken twice daily—that comes to six hundred and fifty dollars per month.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Six hundred and fifty bucks? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“You’re lucky, pal. Just be glad that your doctor didn’t put you on one hundred and sixty milligrams. That would be even more expensive. On the street, they call OxyContin the poor man’s heroin, but there’s nothing poor about it.”

“What do you mean, ‘on the street’?”

“OxyContin, if taken properly, is released slowly into the body. It’s a time-release capsule. But drug addicts circumvent the time release by crushing the pills and inhaling or injecting the powder. It gives them a heroin-like high, supposedly. The cops blame it for part of the rise in crime across the country here lately. Between that, and the fact that there’s no generic version, the prices stay high.”

“Well, this is bullshit, man. I can’t afford this.”

His smile completely vanished.

“Look, buddy, I don’t set the prices. If that’s not affordable for you, then talk to your doctor. There are generic versions of other painkillers that he can prescribe.”

“How cheap would they be?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere from three to five hundred a month.”