Jon woke in intense pain, unable to locate what hurt so bad. He rolled over to look at the clock; it read 4:07. He relaxed, then decided it hadn't been such a good idea when his stomach heaved. Scrambling out of bed as well as he could, he staggered into the bathroom, knowing there was nothing in his stomach to throw up, but his body didn't listen to him. Dry heaves tore him apart for a while, then he lay quietly on the coolness of the tile floor. After another while, he tried to get to his feet, but a stab of pain prevented that, so he crawled to the bedroom and used the sink to pull himself to his feet. Reaching over, he turned the light on. The clock read 4:33.
He stared in utter disbelief. The bed was a shambles, blankets and sheets half on the floor. Near the foot of the bed lay a white, button up blouse, the one he liked best on JJ. Just beyond it lay a bra, ripped. Jon gasped and closed his eyes, then opened them again as he got dizzy. On the far side of the bed lay her jeans miniskirt, and next to it lay his jeans in a pile, the ones he'd worn the night before. His shirt was flung over the desk.
"Oh, no," he mumbled in horror, then glanced down, realizing he had nothing on then he saw the scratches. They went down his chest and his arms, and when he turned to double check in the mirror, found another set across his throat and a bruise just under his left eye, on his cheekbone. He remembered admiring JJ's nails just a couple of days ago, when he'd remembered to notice her. "JJ, I'm sorry," he gasped, and stumbled to the phone. He had to get out of here, away from them, keep this under cover. Before he reached the desk, pain knocked him off his feet. He didn't move for about ten minutes, willing the pain to go away. When it finally subsided, he grabbed the phone chord and pulled the phone down. It barely missed his head. His fingers stumbled over the key pad, and he had to dial three times to get the number right.
"Hello?" The answer was sleepy.
"Mom?" His voice strained, and he found it hard to talk at first.
"Jon, what's wrong?" Her voice was no longer sleepy.
"I don't feel good. I'm comin' home. I've gotta get outa here." He heard and hated the desperation in his voice, but didn't have the strength to cover it.
"Jonathan, are you okay?" She reacted to it, just as he'd known she would.
"No. I'll be home sometime this morning. I'll call you from the airport." He hung up and pulled some clothes from his suitcase, then called to the lobby. "Please get me a cab," he requested. The person consented, and he hung up. The phone kept ringing, but he ignored it; he had to concentrate on getting dressed. It took a while because his hands shook and minor pain continued to flair up. Finally, he finished. Then he found a pen and paper.
'Jordan,' he wrote, his handwriting unsteady, 'please send my stuff home. Tell JJ I'm sorry; I didn't know what I was doing. Jon'. He dropped the pen and headed for the door, grabbing the key on the way. He didn't notice when it slipped out of his hand as he staggered from the room. He made it to the elevator, but the trip down did strange things to his already upset stomach. He stumbled to the vacant front desk to turn in his key, and was mildly surprised to find it wasn't in his hand. He looked at the elevator, then shook his head. There was no way he was getting on that thing again.
He hadn't been waiting long before the cab arrived. He managed to walk fairly steadily to the cab, but fell in after opening the door.
"The airport, please," he gasped.
"You don't look so good," the driver said, pulling away from the curb. "You want help?"
"That's where I'm goin'," Jon said, then doubled up in pain.
"You sure you don't want a doctor?"
"No! Please, I just want to go home," he moaned.
"Okay," the driver said, and sped up. The drive to the airport was short and silent, and when they arrived Jon paid the driver and stumbled into the airport. He found the United Counter and paused gratefully.
"I'd like a ticket to Boston, one way, direct flight," he said, gripping the counter with a death grip.
"Are you okay?" the lady asked.
"No. When is the next flight to Boston?" he repeated.
"6:30 this morning."
"Sounds good," he mumbled.
"Coach?" she asked with misgivings.
"First class." His voice sounded strange to him, and he wondered if it was because of whatever was happening. Then he realized the lady was talking to him. "What?"
"Name?" she repeated patiently.
"Jonathan Knight." He closed his eyes against the pain that rose in his body again. He didn't know if he'd make it home alive, he hurt so bad!
"Is that cash or charge?"
"Charge." He dug his wallet out of his pocket and extracted a credit card.
"Hey, aren't you in New Kids?" the girl asked.
"Not anymore," he gasped. "Please hurry." His knuckles were white on the counter. She completed the transaction and gave him the slip to sign. "Okay," he mumbled, got his legs under him, and took a deep breath. He signed his name very slowly, his face going white. He couldn't stay up much longer; the pain came faster and stayed longer, leaving his body in agony.
Someone took his right arm, holding him up as his knees gave way. "Call an ambulance," a deep voice ordered.
"No!" Jon fought to clear his head of the pain and regain his feet. "I just wanna get home. I'm fine, really," he protested, and took the ticket, his hands shaking worse than before. "What time does the plane leave?" he asked, finally getting his balance.
The girl sighed. "6:30, from gate C7," she said.
"How long is that?" he asked."About an hour."
"Thanks," he said, and turned to walk off, but the man holding him up moved with him. "Who are you?" he asked, looking up. His eyes didn't seem to want to focus. He blurrily saw what looked like a police uniform.
"Security. Mind if I help you?"
"No," Jon said.
"Mind if I ask a question or two?"
"Guess not, I'm kind a used to it." He was very glad this man had decided to help him; he wasn't sure he would have made it on his own.
"What's wrong?"
"Withdrawal, I guess. I just don't remember ever taking anything," he said. The desperation had returned. They moved slowly down the concourse, receiving strange looks from many other people there. Jon's dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the time they reached the gate, and he sank thankfully into an empty chair. He wondered if he'd ever feel normal again.
"You want somethin' to drink?" the man asked.
"No, thanks," Jon responded, closing his eyes. He was exhausted and really wanted to sleep.
"I'm gonna get me a coffee - it's early. You'll be okay?"
"I ain't goin' anywhere," Jon murmured. The man looked at him oddly, and when he returned, Jon was dozing, his shirt plastered to his thin chest. The first announcement for the boarding on his flight woke him, and he looked around blankly. "Where's my suitcase?" he asked, and then nearly panicked when he saw where he was. The security man took hold of his arm securely, and Jonathan focused on him blankly.
"Calm down. You didn't have any luggage to check." He looked at Jonathan closely. "Are you sure you don't want an ambulance?"
Jonathan looked at him, then comprehension dawned in his eyes, and horror. "I'm sure. I have to go home."
"Come on, you need help boarding," the man said, pulling him to his feet. Jon leaned on him and they walked down the hallway to the plane.
Having got Jon in his seat and comfortable, the security guard pulled one of the attendants aside.
"This young man is going through a drug addiction withdrawal. He's demanding to get home, so keep a close eye on him," he said. She nodded and he left the plane, then she walked over to Jon.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Just hot," he mumbled, then forced his eyes to look at her. They still didn't focus. "Can I have a pencil and paper?" he asked. She got it to him, and he began to write. He hadn't reached the end of his first name when he realized his handwriting was worse.
"I'm sorry, I can't read that," the attendant said politely.
"Neither can I," Jon muttered. "You'd better write it. My name is Jon Knight, and my phone number is (412) 573-3701. If I don't get home, call my mom," he instructed. The woman nodded and he closed his eyes.
The take off affected his stomach much the same way the elevator had, but then the pain spread. When it passed, he gasped for breath, trying to set his world straight again. He realized after a minute that he lay across the arm rest of his seat into the aisle and that the attendant knelt near him, trying to help. A cool cloth lay on his forehead, which felt good, and a blanket had been thrown over him. Senses came back slowly, and he realized that the pain hadn't even left his body completely this time. It lurked somewhere, waiting to strike again.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, struggling to right himself. The movement turned the pain loose, and he gasped, then the woman slipped an arm around his shoulders and eased him up so that he sat straight.
"Do you want anything?" she asked.
"Just sleep right now," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He slept almost immediately. She hoped he would be okay as she pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, and she kept an eye on him as she moved around the cabin.
About thirty minutes later he opened his eyes and straightened, looking around. She walked over.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Breakfast has been served."
"No, thanks. But a glass of water would be nice," he smiled. She wondered what a nice man like him was doing drugs for as she got him his drink.
"Would you like an aspirin?" she asked as she handed him the drink.
"No, but thanks." He took a sip of the water, then the pain intensified and the hand holding the cup convulsed, spilling the water all over him. It didn't matter; sweat had already soaked his clothes.
When he opened his eyes, she knelt by him again, her hand trembling as she brushed the hair from his forehead, tears in her eyes.
"We're starting our descent. Are you sure you don't want something for that pain?" she asked.
"No! I don't want anymore drugs," he mumbled. She only understood the no and complied with his wishes, leaving him alone for a few minutes to go to the cockpit.
"Sir," she said to the captain, "there is a young man in first class in severe pain. Would you notify the tower to have emergency equipment meet us?" A cry of pain ripped through the plane, and she ran back to where Jon lay bonelessly in his seat, gasping for breath.
Jon knew nothing but pain. His mind burned, his body in agony, and all his senses had turned inward. He didn't realize he was biting his lower lip, he just knew that he shouldn't scream. He didn't even feel the pain when his teeth broke the skin and blood gushed down his chin and onto his shirt. The attendant quickly pressed a corner of the blanket against the wound.
The landing, unbelievably, increased his agony. He was exhausted, but couldn't loose his grip on consciousness. He wanted nothing more then the oblivion he'd had two nights ago, once the drug had gone out of his system, but he pushed the thought away with all his failing strength. He didn't need the damn drug.
The attendant bent closer as he mumbled something, then shook her head. She couldn't hear him. The plane rolled to a stop on the runway as the captain explained shortly what was happening, and everyone could hear the sirens coming closer. Minutes later, two men with a stretcher strode onto the plane and stopped near the attendant. One threw the blanket off and undid Jon's seat belt, then they quickly lifted him onto the stretcher. His eyes flickered open as they strapped him down. One saw to his lip, momentarily blocking his blurry vision.
"We're in Boston," the woman explained. "I'll call your mother as soon as I disembark."
"Thank you," he whispered, then the paramedics took him out, down the stairs, and into the ambulance. There, the pain flared up again, and the oblivion he wanted so badly swallowed him.
Go on to Next Chapter | Grounds for Vengeance
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