The pain came in waves. Long, treacherous waves. Waves of which a full moon would tug at with such force, the ground would shift as well.
Waves that crash violently against the calming shore, slowly fading away, only to strike the land harder than before.
Nothing was calming tonight though, for Augustus Jones passed out for the second time that night.
Vomit was what woke Augustus. The strong, acidic smell filled his nostrils, his face only inches away from the matter. He could care less of the grotesque sight. He saw it all the time.
When he vomited he got all of, as his mother had once said, the 'bad' out. It just so happened his 'bad' was Morphine.
One of the symptoms of Morphine withdrawal was nausea. Not the easy, adrenaline spiking kind of nausea. This nausea was worse.
This nausea twisted your stomach, poked and prodded at your weak points. Hot bile would fill your throat, even if you haven't eaten in days. That being said, Morphine made you not want to eat.
Food disgusted you. Contrary wise, you needed something to purge. Your body would get rid of anything you had left, even if it was simply the acids in your stomach.
Augustus thankfully, ate the night before.
It all came in loops, and as loops are, they really don't end. It's like the effect of taping two long pieces together at the ends.
You can see where you started (the tape) but not really where you end. As you keep desperately searching for the end, you know the only option is to break the loop.
Okay, now make the loop out of steel. Try breaking that. That's what Augustus addiction was, a loop made of pure metal, almost impossible for him to break.
Overall, he was far too weak to even try.
As Augustus went to raise his head, the sickness sank in again. It only came after a few minutes of consciousness (you never truly woke up with it).
Augustus knew he had been rolling hard the night before, for his memory was a blind haze, and because of how deep his pain was. Bits and pieces of his memory existed, yes, that was very true.
Overall, his night seemed to be non-existent. It was good he was home though. This bathroom was his.
He could tell by the bright pink and yellow post-it notes pasted against the sides of his mirror. They all said positive, uplifting mantras.
Even through Augustus' blurred vision, he could still make out his favourite one. The words were 'sarvesham mangalam bhavatu' meaning 'May there be happiness for all'.
His mother had told him of this chant years ago. At the time he thought it was stupid.
He never cared much for Sanskrit, (this was mostly fueled by his foreign culture classes throughout grade school) but something about these words were different. They were actually true.
Well, at least somewhat.
Gus finally managed the strength to pull his head up from the slacked position it once was at. This was a dutiful task, as it really was gonna happen at sometime or another.
Augustus wouldn't just sit crumpled in a heap all day. He had things to do. When you are a struggling artist in Los Angeles, you are always busy.
Now the things you may be doing can be wasting your life away, but Augustus always felt like things happened for a reason.
Even if he wasted his night alone in his art studio, something good came out of it. Maybe he would've made a new, innovate piece, or even took some well-needed "me time".
The thing was, Augustus always wasted his time for less important things. Los Angeles really could inspire you, or even take those inspirations and chuck them out the window.
Gus didn't have to hope anymore, other people did that for him.