Fatal Dose
Carwyn Dythen
As the house phone began to ring downstairs, Carwyn crouched down behind his bedroom door and examined his hand as he tentatively flexed his fingers out. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, and even though there was a new dent in his door now he knew that there would be no need for a trip to the hospital today. He was thankful about that because his mum would have to be the one to drive him and he certainly did not want to get into that conversation with her again.
There wasn't much he could do to stop those conversations happening though, because he wasn't quite able to move out of his parents' house without his mother fretting every five seconds about whether he was dead or not. Ever since he was a boy she had always had this preconceived idea that he was going to die young, and at the age of twenty-five, he still didn't believe any validity behind her fear. He supposed it was just something that she'd developed after all those countless appointments he'd had when he was younger in an attempt to explain why he couldn't be around kids his own age safely.
"Carwyn," his father shouted up the stairs, "phone's for you."
He knew it wouldn't be Claire as she had just been on the phone with him an hour ago before he'd ultimately lost control of his emotions and ended up with a bruised hand, and there was no one other than her who he actually spoke to outside of the family.
"Carwyn!"
"Tell them to fuck off," he shouted back, standing up from where he'd been crouched and making his way over to his desk drawers. He used his unhurt hand to open the top drawer and pull out the tubigrip that he kept in easy access whenever he hurt his hand too badly. Crashing down onto his bed, he slid the grip over his knuckles and up his wrist, feeling the material mould into his hand's shape firmly. It wasn't something that he was too bothered about hiding because his parents had become so used to the sight of his hand being wrapped up in a bandage that they no longer asked what happened.
He then turned and reached under his pillow, pulling out the job application form that he'd gotten Claire to pick up for him the other day. It wasn't an application for a good job but to Carwyn, any job would be good enough. He had never been employed before, and despite it being down to his "disability", he often found himself hopefully applying for low-paid jobs and, without fail, being rejected from them all. How he was supposed to become independent he'd never know because a job was a necessity and if no one would even contemplate hiring him, how would he ever be able to move out on his own? Not that his mother wanted him to, but he knew that it'd be pretty pathetic of him to still be living at home at the age of thirty, and despite how young he felt, that was only five years away.
There was a knock at the door before his dad opened it. "I heard a loud noise," he said, to which Carwyn lifted his hand up and motioned to the tubigrip. "Ah, right. Want me to get some ice?"
"Nah, I'm alright. You could post this for me." He held out the application for his dad to take and watched as the older man ran his eyes over the envelope it was held in.
"Job application?"
"Yeah. Waste of my time, though," he muttered, clenching his hurt hand into a fist. It wasn't fair.
His dad nodded. "You'll get there, one day. Go to the jobcentre again?"
Carwyn scoffed. "Because that really helps."
"You never know. And before I forget, that phonecall was from someone called WACH. What was that about?"
"No clue," he said, completely uninterested in the conversation now. "Just post the damn thing."
There was nothing else to be said so he slipped out of the room and left his son alone. It was hard for them all to deal with Carwyn's disorder, especially as no one ever had a diagnosis to give, but it was harder on him more than his parents because although they had the consequences and backlash sometimes, they never had to deal with completely losing control and being unable to regain it. They just hoped that one day someone would know what was wrong with him, and ultimately how to help him.
There wasn't much he could do to stop those conversations happening though, because he wasn't quite able to move out of his parents' house without his mother fretting every five seconds about whether he was dead or not. Ever since he was a boy she had always had this preconceived idea that he was going to die young, and at the age of twenty-five, he still didn't believe any validity behind her fear. He supposed it was just something that she'd developed after all those countless appointments he'd had when he was younger in an attempt to explain why he couldn't be around kids his own age safely.
"Carwyn," his father shouted up the stairs, "phone's for you."
He knew it wouldn't be Claire as she had just been on the phone with him an hour ago before he'd ultimately lost control of his emotions and ended up with a bruised hand, and there was no one other than her who he actually spoke to outside of the family.
"Carwyn!"
"Tell them to fuck off," he shouted back, standing up from where he'd been crouched and making his way over to his desk drawers. He used his unhurt hand to open the top drawer and pull out the tubigrip that he kept in easy access whenever he hurt his hand too badly. Crashing down onto his bed, he slid the grip over his knuckles and up his wrist, feeling the material mould into his hand's shape firmly. It wasn't something that he was too bothered about hiding because his parents had become so used to the sight of his hand being wrapped up in a bandage that they no longer asked what happened.
He then turned and reached under his pillow, pulling out the job application form that he'd gotten Claire to pick up for him the other day. It wasn't an application for a good job but to Carwyn, any job would be good enough. He had never been employed before, and despite it being down to his "disability", he often found himself hopefully applying for low-paid jobs and, without fail, being rejected from them all. How he was supposed to become independent he'd never know because a job was a necessity and if no one would even contemplate hiring him, how would he ever be able to move out on his own? Not that his mother wanted him to, but he knew that it'd be pretty pathetic of him to still be living at home at the age of thirty, and despite how young he felt, that was only five years away.
There was a knock at the door before his dad opened it. "I heard a loud noise," he said, to which Carwyn lifted his hand up and motioned to the tubigrip. "Ah, right. Want me to get some ice?"
"Nah, I'm alright. You could post this for me." He held out the application for his dad to take and watched as the older man ran his eyes over the envelope it was held in.
"Job application?"
"Yeah. Waste of my time, though," he muttered, clenching his hurt hand into a fist. It wasn't fair.
His dad nodded. "You'll get there, one day. Go to the jobcentre again?"
Carwyn scoffed. "Because that really helps."
"You never know. And before I forget, that phonecall was from someone called WACH. What was that about?"
"No clue," he said, completely uninterested in the conversation now. "Just post the damn thing."
There was nothing else to be said so he slipped out of the room and left his son alone. It was hard for them all to deal with Carwyn's disorder, especially as no one ever had a diagnosis to give, but it was harder on him more than his parents because although they had the consequences and backlash sometimes, they never had to deal with completely losing control and being unable to regain it. They just hoped that one day someone would know what was wrong with him, and ultimately how to help him.