When You Wake up and Scream

Naoise looked at him, horrified, but he wouldn't elaborate. He was silent until the ambulance arrived, and then he started muttering incoherently again. Naoise didn't know what he was saying. But considering his reluctance to go to the hospital, she suspected it was just as well that he couldn't be understood, as what he was saying was probably not polite.

"Do you know how much he's been drinking?" one of the paramedics asked, as Conán was put into the back of the ambulance.

"He says a ten-glass of Vodka, but he must have drunk it very quickly. I know him and he can take his drink."

"You don't know if he's taken any medication with it?"

Naoise's heart lurched.

"I didn't ask him, I don't know if he's on medication for anything."

Naoise went to the hospital with him. She thanked her lucky stars at least for the fact that he was a good drunk. Now he had resigned himself to his fate, he was just lying there quite obediently, hic-cupping every so often and occasionally, but briefly, drifting out of consciousness.

Conán was secretly quite glad to get to the hospital. He knew that he had taken it too far this time, and it wasn't the first time he had had his stomach pumped, so, as uncomfortable as it was, he saw it as a quick way of sobering up. He still felt as sick as a dog when he was left to himself, but at least he didn't feel like he were dying anymore. He was just severely dehydrated, but the drip they had put him on was seeing to that.

"That was some severe alcohol poisoning there, lad." the doctor was saying, as Naoise slipped into the room behind him. "You need to learn to take it easy in future."

"I will." Conán's voice was hollow – he had no intention of quitting his drinking habits and he wasn't going to waste his emotion lying.

The doctor left the room and Conán noticed Naoise for the first time. He blinked in surprise.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I was the one who rang the ambulance, you muppet."

"Oh." Conán frowned, evidently confused. "Right. Well, thanks, I guess, even though I don’t actually remember you being there …"

"It's no bother. Why on Earth did you drink that much anyway?"

"I usually drink that much every day, just not in one hour." Conán yawned and stretched.

"So what made today any different?"

Conán had that annoying sensation where something jolts you and you stop in mid-yawn, even though your body wants to keep going. He forced himself to yawn properly, and then blinked up at her innocently.

"I just get depressed sometimes, right? And drinking helps that."

"It doesn't look like it."

"Yeah, well, what would you know?" Conán asked, while secretly thinking quite a different thought inside his head. I got so drunk because I just killed one of your ex-friends and I was trying to muster up the nerve to cut her body into several different pieces, why do you think I was so drunk?

"What's that supposed to mean?" Naoise frowned.

"Sorry, sorry … I just get defensive when it comes to my drinking habits."

"That’s because you know they're wrong."

"Who cares? Nobody lives forever."

"But you still want to live for as long as you can."

"You might want to. I see no reason why I'm still here."

The words were out of Conán's mouth before he could stop them, and he wondered why he had said them. A small voice in the back of his head was telling him why, and he hadn't listened to it in a while.

Because you're out of control, because you're evil, because you're going too far, because if you're not stopped soon you'll never stop, because you're a killer, because more people are going to die, because you deserve to die for what you've done …

Conán shook his head furiously to shake the thoughts away and Naoise looked at him strangely.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"I don’t think you are."

"And why not?"

"You sound suicidal, that's why."

"I'm not suicidal. I'm just feeling indifferent today."

"So if you died right now, you wouldn’t care?"

"No."

"Conán, I worry about you, I really, really do!" Naoise's eyes were wide and pleading, begging him to listen to her, to realise that she was there at least, that she cared.

"Why should you worry about me? You've only known me for a couple of weeks."

You've been killing for three years; you need to be gotten rid of, before you end up hurting more people!

Conán shook his head again, letting out a growl of frustration.

"I care about you because you're in a vulnerable position and I'm a nice person when I want to be." Naoise told him simply, sitting beside his bed. He looked at her with dull dark eyes. Their glitter was gone. It unnerved her. He looked dead inside, as though a final piece of him, a final shred of humanity linking him to the world, had finally been extinguished.

"Well, you shouldn't worry about me. I'm not worth it."

Conán's voice was flat and monotone, and Naoise couldn’t believe that such a change could have come over him so quickly.

"I think you're worth it; you just need a bit of work! Have you ever thought about therapy, Conán?"

"Therapy?" Conán repeated blankly. "Why would I need therapy?"

"Well," Naoise progressed carefully. "It's clear all of these problems stem from your childhood. Perhaps you should talk to someone about what happened, they can help you recover from what you've been through."

"I do talk to people, and I'll never recover." Conán replied simply.

"Who do you talk to?"

"You."

And Steve, he thought to himself, but he didn't think he should start trying to explain to Naoise who Steve actually was. To him, Steve was his flatmate. To anyone else, Steve was a long and hefty prison sentence.

"Conán, I'm not a trained professional. All I can do is listen; I don't know anything practical that can be done. Drinking is not the answer!"

"I don't want to lie there and talk to someone who's not even going to care. At least with you I get a little sympathy."

"So that's what you want? Sympathy? Is that what you're telling me all of this for?"

"No, I'm telling you this because I thought you cared. Clearly, you didn't. You're just like everyone else I've ever met, they never gave a crap about me."

"Conán, don't," Naoise said softly. "I do care about you, that's why I'm suggesting that you get help."

"More like you want to lump me and my problems off to some other person."

"Conán –"

"Save it. I'm used to people not caring. There was my mother who hated me from the minute I was born. There was my father who doesn't even know I exist. There were all my mother's boyfriends who would beat me and torture me and hate me just as much as my mother did. There were all of the kids at school who would tease me and laugh at me and play tricks on me, and there were the teachers who wouldn't do anything at all because they couldn't be bothered getting involved with the 'problem child' and his 'problem family'. Who would want to help the illegitimate little bastard? Who would want him anyway? No one, that's who! And I've grown up with that, so I don't care. I expect it. I don’t want to be hurt anymore, so this is it. Just leave me alone."

Conán's voice was flat, dull, monotone, matter-of-fact, but Naoise could just about sense a hidden and deep sadness in his voice, a sign that somewhere under there, he did care, and she needed to reach him before it was too late.