Pills [muke]

prologue [& warning]

In this story I will be using real medication names. I am not a doctor so please don't try to correct me if you can't actually use the meds together. Also, Luke is a 28 y/o author in this and at the beginning (excluding this one) of each chapter, there will be a paragraph or sentence in italic and that's the entries of his novel. (ANY OF HIS STORIES' NAMES ARE NAMES OF DIFFERENT 5SOS SONGS).

Warning: smut, foul language, alcoholism, depression, may include suicidal thoughts/actions. Do not read if you fear this story might trigger you.

Written in 3rd person

Other pairings: N/A

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Luke has always been the type to be in the middle of a book and just stop reading. He'll be so intrigued and interested in the story at first but then the pages seem longer and the plot seems just to repeat itself over and Luke didn't like that. He liked something new every day.

But nothing is new in his life.

Luke "takes" his medicine for his mother's sake, he writes and then he sleeps... for over 20 hours a day but who's counting? Luke is because when he wakes up and it's already 10 pm, he can't help but ask himself "isn't there something more to this life?"

No, Luke thinks.

His head is rested on his computer, random letters are typed across the screen from his failed attempt to write something - anything. Nothing has come to mind and he just has to wait for it to, he cannot force it. You see, Luke has always believed that a good story comes from the flow of the imagination. But Luke's mind hasn't been flowing so clearly lately. His train of thought is reckless and anything he attempts to write is absolute rubbish, in his opinion anyways.

Next to Luke is a half-empty whiskey bottle and a shot glass. He's not supposed to drink alcohol with his medications but Luke thinks that he's just like any other great author: a drunk. He's been working on his next novel for over 2 years now and everyone thinks he was just a one hit wonder.

What they don't know is that he's actually published 3 novels, the other two not being as well-known as his New York Time's Bestseller Castaway, but no one cares about that because that was the past. They care about money and Luke isn't bringing any in. They care about John Green and Steven King, R.L. Stine and Gayle Foreman. They do not care about him anymore.

Luke cares though, well, as much as he can. Being an author is the only thing he's ever cared about and now he's watching it all fall apart just because he can't start a simple sentence. He can't finish what has yet to start and so here he is living at his mother's house, at age 28, in hopes of going elsewhere.

Luke lifts his head back up to stare once again at the computer screen. He misses the days when he would write stories in his journal because his eyes are burning and he remembers someone telling him that the screens of computers and phones give you cancer.

Ain't nothing killing me but myself, he thought at the time.

He lets out a well overdue sigh, his lazy eyes scanning over the words on the laptop once again before grabbing the whiskey bottle and taking a quick swig straight from the bottle. He's thankful he had stopped taking his medicine because if it weren't alcoholism that killed him, it would be overdosing.

He smiles slightly as an idea courses through his drunken mind and starts typing. It's not long before he deletes the sentence he just typed and throws the shot glass at the nearest wall. The sound of glass shattering is the only thing heard in the entire house at this time (the time being a quarter 'til 3) and he makes it now that he thanks God for staying in the basement because he wouldn't want his mom to see him like this.

Luke closes the laptop, not having to save anything because there was nothing to save and makes his way to his bed in the corner of the room. He settles himself under the blankets and sheet, curling into a ball facing the cold concrete wall. Once he closes his eyes a perfect hook for his book fills his mind.

Luke had wanted to write a story for so long, one that wasn't typical and wasn't the same as everyone else's. He wanted to make one real, but that's not what people look for in a book. They read for a sense of fantasy, an escape from reality.

But Luke wanted something real. Something that wasn't fictional and you could relate to rather than reading about falling in love with a zombie. He enjoyed those fiction novels but he couldn't stand writing them himself.

He's a romance novelist and he wants to show true hardship, true love.

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Michael, on the other side of the city, has never bothered to pick up a book that wasn't highly popular. He was one to read a book after the movie had already came out and he had seen it. He enjoyed comparing them.

He was privileged at his age, 29, having had grown up in the richer part of New York. He was accustomed to visiting The Met at the end of every month and he even spoke Italian. He enjoyed the way that the language rolled of the Opera Singers' tongue in the most beautiful way.

But he preferred loud drum solos and breath-taking guitar riffs.

Of course, Michael had never told anyone of his friends or family members of his love for rock music; although even at his age, which most people would consider old, he wished to be a guitarist in a well-known band. He wanted to be loved and adored.

With his job though, being an Engineer just like his dad wanted, he didn't get much of that. Michael was the head at his workplace and he hated being called 'Sir' or 'Mr.' all the time. The workers were smart, easygoing men but Michael just couldn't enjoy being there. It wasn't at all what he wanted to do in life.

He sat at the edge of his chair, his eyes flicking around the room as he held his coffee cup just to the edge of his lips but he didn't satisfy himself with actually taking a sip. His eyes land on a small blonde girl and her mother. They were pointing at a book, talking quietly almost as if it were a library but this was a bookstore and maybe they were just being polite.

He stared at them for a moment, a small smile gracing his pink lips. He wanted a family and he wanted to be happy like they appeared. Michael then places his cup back down on the lightly colored table and stands up.

He takes a deep breath before walking over to the small girl and her mother. He walks over to the two of them and they don't even notice him as he tunes in to their conversation, eavesdropping in the least threatening way.

The small girl took one of the books into her hands, opening the small blue book and staring intently at the pages. "What kind of books does daddy write, mama?"

A smile graced the woman's lips as she said, "He writes about love."

Before another word can be spoken Michael clears his throat and both of the girls look up at him questionably. He smiles sheepishly and says, "It's a good book, I hear."

The mother picks up her child in her arms, nodding. "He's a great author."

"That's my daddy!" The child, that looks no less than 5, exclaims. She holds up the cover of the book towards Michael and he reads the title and author's name.

L.R. Hemmings

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i think this was a pretty good start. vote & comment what you think so far and i'll update again soon :-)