Fic: Sitting Alone in the Dark
Title: Sitting Alone in the Dark
Author: shana
Dedication: For liroa15 for all she does.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. Also, not true. I made it all up.
Pairing: Tommy Robredo
Rating: PG-13
A.N: For the netcord. Warnings for alcohol abuse, prescription abuse, and depression.
The bottle sitting on the low table in front of him is open. It's been sitting there--open--or hours. Maybe it's been sitting there for days. He's not really sure what day it is. It's not that he particularly wants to be sitting and looking at an open bottle of tequila, but that's life.
The moment he hit the shot, he knew. He knew something wasn't right. After this many years on the courts, he knows how his body should feel, and the feeling of being injured is something with which he's too familiar by now. He's gotten strangely used to the feeling of not right. It's his knee this time.
He winces as he hobbles to his kitchen. The water in his fridge isn't want he wants, but it does allow him to take the pain pills the doctors gave him. He's not supposed to take the pills with alcohol. That's what the water is for. He's also not supposed to take more than six a day--two every eight hours. He probably took ten yesterday.
He's had a little bit of trouble sticking to those instructions, but he sort of expected that. He's pretty sure everyone has some trouble managing the pain and the pain pills in the first few weeks of a major injury. Maybe it's the frustration or the inactivity or the loneliness, but it's always a struggle.
It's hard to manage on his own. He keeps the pills in the kitchen so he has to get up to get them. This way it's too much work to take too many, even if he doesn't have anyone around to remind him not to take too many.
The tequila on the table on the other hand...
He settles back onto his sofa and reaches for the bottle. The tumbler, too big for tequila but perfect for this, is right in front of the bottle. The amber liquid sloshes into it pleasantly. He lifts the tumbler to his lips and lets the burn soothe the incessant twisting of the what ifs that make it impossible to focus on recovery instead of being injured.
The tequila hits his stomach, and warmth starts to spread through his veins. It's the only thing that seems to dull the bite of being sidelined... again. He smiles a little and pours more tequila into the tumbler, not caring when it dribbles onto the table top.
He doesn't bother to keep track of how much he drinks. When he looks at the bottle again, actually looks, it's a little more than half empty, and he can't help but wonder if he's drunk that much. He doesn't feel like he has.
The sky is darker than when he last bothered to look somewhere that wasn't the bottle, tumbler, or the endless loop of the shot, the pull in his knee, the trainer helping him off, and everything that followed that plays behind his eyes. The room is swimming alarmingly though, and he thinks that maybe he's had enough for now.
He wakes up with his face mashed into his sofa... he doesn't know how many hours later. His head hurts, a sure sign he's been drinking too much. When he manages to open his eyes, he's confronted by a mostly empty tequila bottle, tipped over on the table, and a blinding pain behind his eyes.
His phone is vibrating across the table, and he grabs for it, hoping that silencing it will stop the throbbing in his head. There's texts from David and Marcel, and his trainer's forwarded him a schedule for rehab and strengthening for his knee.
Just looking at the damn thing, or maybe the phone screen, is enough to make him want to grab the bottle and start drinking again. Unfortunately--or fortunately--it's empty, and he's forced to get up and hobble to the kitchen for his pills and some water.
He's scheduled to start rehab next week, and right now he can barely walk to his kitchen without giving up and swallowing pills to make it back to the sofa. The pills are sitting on the counter, and he takes three with a few gulps of water, hoping that they'll help with the hangover too.
The sofa, when he forces himself to hobble back to the living room, is both inviting and depressing. He scrolls through the texts after he gets himself settled once more. He replies to some, David's third text asking if he's dead, and Marcel's picture of Marc looking like a drowned rat after practice. He tries to stay upbeat and positive, but it's hard when they're playing tennis and he's not.
He definitely doesn't want to sound like he's been drunk more often than he's been sober and when he's not drunk, he's high on the pain killers. They also don't need to know that he can still barely walk.
He wants to reach for the bottle again, thinking about it, because it's painful. Even worse than the dull ache in his head from the tequila, but he'd have to get up to get more alcohol and he's not ready to do that just yet.
And if he does, he'll be right back where he was and hating himself for it.
He winces and forces himself to open the training schedule again, using his own guilt as a motivation. It starts next week, but it also has exercises and things he should be doing--the things the trainers recommended and he's been ignoring in favour of tequila.
As bad as being injured is, being injured, pathetic, and sober enough to realize how pathetic his actions are is even worse. That ends tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow, he'll force himself to start exercising and working on his return. It's ninety percent mental, or whatever they say.
First, he has to sleep off this headache and let the lingering haze of tequila clear his system.
He'll definitely start working on his return to tennis right after that.
He'll start working on being Tommy Robredo again instead of a pathetic shadow of himself.
Fini.
S
Author: shana
Dedication: For liroa15 for all she does.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. Also, not true. I made it all up.
Pairing: Tommy Robredo
Rating: PG-13
A.N: For the netcord. Warnings for alcohol abuse, prescription abuse, and depression.
The bottle sitting on the low table in front of him is open. It's been sitting there--open--or hours. Maybe it's been sitting there for days. He's not really sure what day it is. It's not that he particularly wants to be sitting and looking at an open bottle of tequila, but that's life.
The moment he hit the shot, he knew. He knew something wasn't right. After this many years on the courts, he knows how his body should feel, and the feeling of being injured is something with which he's too familiar by now. He's gotten strangely used to the feeling of not right. It's his knee this time.
He winces as he hobbles to his kitchen. The water in his fridge isn't want he wants, but it does allow him to take the pain pills the doctors gave him. He's not supposed to take the pills with alcohol. That's what the water is for. He's also not supposed to take more than six a day--two every eight hours. He probably took ten yesterday.
He's had a little bit of trouble sticking to those instructions, but he sort of expected that. He's pretty sure everyone has some trouble managing the pain and the pain pills in the first few weeks of a major injury. Maybe it's the frustration or the inactivity or the loneliness, but it's always a struggle.
It's hard to manage on his own. He keeps the pills in the kitchen so he has to get up to get them. This way it's too much work to take too many, even if he doesn't have anyone around to remind him not to take too many.
The tequila on the table on the other hand...
He settles back onto his sofa and reaches for the bottle. The tumbler, too big for tequila but perfect for this, is right in front of the bottle. The amber liquid sloshes into it pleasantly. He lifts the tumbler to his lips and lets the burn soothe the incessant twisting of the what ifs that make it impossible to focus on recovery instead of being injured.
The tequila hits his stomach, and warmth starts to spread through his veins. It's the only thing that seems to dull the bite of being sidelined... again. He smiles a little and pours more tequila into the tumbler, not caring when it dribbles onto the table top.
He doesn't bother to keep track of how much he drinks. When he looks at the bottle again, actually looks, it's a little more than half empty, and he can't help but wonder if he's drunk that much. He doesn't feel like he has.
The sky is darker than when he last bothered to look somewhere that wasn't the bottle, tumbler, or the endless loop of the shot, the pull in his knee, the trainer helping him off, and everything that followed that plays behind his eyes. The room is swimming alarmingly though, and he thinks that maybe he's had enough for now.
He wakes up with his face mashed into his sofa... he doesn't know how many hours later. His head hurts, a sure sign he's been drinking too much. When he manages to open his eyes, he's confronted by a mostly empty tequila bottle, tipped over on the table, and a blinding pain behind his eyes.
His phone is vibrating across the table, and he grabs for it, hoping that silencing it will stop the throbbing in his head. There's texts from David and Marcel, and his trainer's forwarded him a schedule for rehab and strengthening for his knee.
Just looking at the damn thing, or maybe the phone screen, is enough to make him want to grab the bottle and start drinking again. Unfortunately--or fortunately--it's empty, and he's forced to get up and hobble to the kitchen for his pills and some water.
He's scheduled to start rehab next week, and right now he can barely walk to his kitchen without giving up and swallowing pills to make it back to the sofa. The pills are sitting on the counter, and he takes three with a few gulps of water, hoping that they'll help with the hangover too.
The sofa, when he forces himself to hobble back to the living room, is both inviting and depressing. He scrolls through the texts after he gets himself settled once more. He replies to some, David's third text asking if he's dead, and Marcel's picture of Marc looking like a drowned rat after practice. He tries to stay upbeat and positive, but it's hard when they're playing tennis and he's not.
He definitely doesn't want to sound like he's been drunk more often than he's been sober and when he's not drunk, he's high on the pain killers. They also don't need to know that he can still barely walk.
He wants to reach for the bottle again, thinking about it, because it's painful. Even worse than the dull ache in his head from the tequila, but he'd have to get up to get more alcohol and he's not ready to do that just yet.
And if he does, he'll be right back where he was and hating himself for it.
He winces and forces himself to open the training schedule again, using his own guilt as a motivation. It starts next week, but it also has exercises and things he should be doing--the things the trainers recommended and he's been ignoring in favour of tequila.
As bad as being injured is, being injured, pathetic, and sober enough to realize how pathetic his actions are is even worse. That ends tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow, he'll force himself to start exercising and working on his return. It's ninety percent mental, or whatever they say.
First, he has to sleep off this headache and let the lingering haze of tequila clear his system.
He'll definitely start working on his return to tennis right after that.
He'll start working on being Tommy Robredo again instead of a pathetic shadow of himself.
Fini.
S