Chapter Text
November 8th
It was as if the entire world was underground, and every sense had to fight its way through the layers of Earth and thick carpet in order to reach him.
“Ian, you better be getting your ass up! You’re gonna be late!”
He could make out the high tone of voice that meant Fiona was yelling, despite the fact that he could barely hear her.
He was tired of feeling like he was experiencing the world through a window. Like he wasn’t actually a part of any of it. Like he could see it clearly but he ran into thick, paned glass when he tried to interact. Like he was outside of it all.
“Ian!”
Ian groaned and rolled over in bed. He came face to face with his nightstand and the small orange bottle that sat there, taunting him. It was like a lighthouse at the top of a cliff, its light pointing to a muted future. One that ran in black and white, like the old movies that Mandy used to drag him to at the cheap theater on Cermak. Devoid of color, of depth.
“Ian? Fiona’s gonna lose her shit if you don’t at least say something.”
Ian raised his eyes away from the nightstand to look at his little sister. She was standing in front of his bed, arms crossed over her chest but her face didn’t reflect anger or annoyance. No. Her face was the face that everyone wore around him these days; the one that was that very specific blend of worry and fear, with the slightest edge of pity. He fucking hated that face.
“Yeah, Debs, I know. I’m gettin’ up.”
Debbie’s face didn’t change, but she uncrossed her arms.
“Good.” She took a few steps forward and knelt down so she was looking into Ian’s eyes. “Don’t forget to take your meds.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
He sat up, his limbs feeling like they were filled with sand, and took his meds. He accidentally let the pill get too chalky before he swallowed it, and the taste lingered like a constant reminder that his life now belonged to a small white tablet.
As he got ready for work, pulling a hoodie on over his Patsy’s shirt, he moved slowly. It was hard for even him to believe that he was the same guy who used to do push-ups before school. Now, every movement took effort. His body felt like it was being pulled into the floor; like all it would take was one too-long breath for him to collapse under the weight.
—
He really hated this job.
Sean was barking orders at him and Fiona was glancing over at him every minute, her face reflecting that same fucking expression. The one that they all wore. The one that was paired with careful footsteps, soft voices, and cajoling tones. The one they had all used around Monica. And now it was being directed at him.
He reached for yet another syrup-coated plate, trying in vain to avoid getting the sticky substance all over his hands. As the plate clinked against the other ones in the tub, he sighed.
He was so tired of that look. And the way they all acted around him. He was tired of being treated like Monica.
He wasn’t Monica. He wasn’t living with a teenage meth dealer or letting the kids drive the car. He was just Ian. He took his meds, he had a job, he was living at home. He was doing his best.
“Can you tell your brother to hurry up? I’ve seen mud move faster than he is.”
But even his best wasn’t good enough. Not anymore. He moved too slowly, he felt too little, he had no purpose. He just simply existed.
“Hey, Ian? You okay?”
He gritted his teeth and turned to face his older sister.
“Yeah, Mom. I’m fine.” He was sick and tired of being treated like this. Like if anyone pushed too hard he would break in their hands.
He had always been the one that they had trusted to be fine. The one that no one paid attention to because he was stable. He had a job, he had a hobby, he had a best friend. He was Ian and he was fine. But not anymore.
“Not your mom, just worried. You’re moving a little slowly, sweetface.”
Sweetface. Even the use of the nickname further proved that they had all decided that this was who he was now. He was Ian and they had to worry about him doing some crazy shit. He was Ian who reminded them of Monica. He was Ian and he was sick.
“Fiona? Can I see you for a minute?”
Ian rolled his eyes at the telltale drawl of Sean.
“Go. And tell him that if he has a problem with me, he can talk to me himself.” Ian turned back to the table, purposefully avoiding having to watch his sister’s reaction. He knew he was being petty, but he was tired of being handled like he could go off at any moment.
He continued to load dirty, sticky plates into his tub and heard her footsteps fade as she walked away.
Someone at table nine snapped their fingers at him, and he took a deep breath.
He really needed to find a new job.
—
The house was empty when he got home.
This wasn’t unusual anymore. Fiona was always at Patsy’s these days, Lip off at college. Debbie was almost never home; she and Fiona seemed locked in a never-ending argument lately. And with Carl in juvie and Liam at Head Start, Ian often returned to this.
He hated it. For one, fewer people around meant more focus on him, especially lately. But more than that, he missed the way the house felt. The Gallagher house had never been perfect, hell they barely had enough for rent most months, but it had always been lively. Fiona yelling up at them on school mornings, dance parties in the living room, kitchen table arguments, even the occasional viewing of The Deadliest Catch.
But now?
Now, everyone was in and out the door as fast as they could be. The house was kept quiet most of the time because “Ian needed his sleep.” It seemed like they all couldn’t wait to get out of there every day and they returned just to eat and sleep, if at all.
Ian removed his coat, hung it on the messy rack by the door, and made his way into the house. He knew Fiona would be home soon-ish, but he didn’t feel like waiting for her to lecture him about eating to “keep on his routine.”
The fucking routine. That’s all his life was anymore. Routines. Meds at 6:00. Run until 7:00. Breakfast at 7:30. Work from 8:00 to 6:00. Dinner at 6:15. Meds again. In bed by 10:00.
Every day was exactly the same.
He fixed himself a pitiful sandwich and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He wasn’t supposed to drink on his meds, but he was learning how to pace himself so that he only got a little buzzed. It was like he was nine again and eleven-year-old Lip was reminding him not to have too much because Fiona would definitely catch them if he threw up.
His mouth quirked up into an almost-smile as he remembered the way he felt that night. The rush he got stealing a six-pack from the fridge and slinging the hand-me-down backpack onto his back. The conspiratorial way Lip has whispered him instructions as they huddled together on the top bunk, and how cool he had felt as he followed Lip to a “secret location” under the L tracks.
He had shotgunned his first beer that night. He could still remember the bubbles going down his throat and the feeling of warmth settling in his gut. He could hear the high-pitched giggle he let out and the way that Lip had playfully yelled “Ian! You’re gonna get us caught!”
He wished with everything he had that he could be that boy again. That carefree boy who drank beers and set off fireworks with his older brother. That boy who contributed to the squirrel fund, was hardcore ROTC, had goals and ambitions.
Instead, he was this Ian. This Ian had nothing. No purpose. No goals. All he had was this ham sandwich and one beer. And his routine.
What good was he to anyone?
—
As if on cue, the front door opened and Fiona walked in, Liam trailing behind her.
“Fuck,” Ian exclaimed as he tried to hide the beer from her. He really didn’t need the lecture right now.
He was too late.
It started as soon as he was in her eyeline. “Ian. You know you’re not supposed to drink on your meds. Are you okay?” As she spoke, Ian could see her move Liam until he was slightly behind her. “How have you been feeling lately?”
“I’m fucking fine. I had one beer with dinner, I’m pacing myself, but I still get treated like a fucking criminal. And I see you hiding Liam from me. ...What? I can’t even be trusted around my own brother now? You gave him coke and you still act all high and fucking mighty. It’s a fucking joke.”
Fiona’s expression went blank. Ian knew he should stop, but he was really on a roll now.
“I’m sick and tired of you trying to control my whole life! You think you’re so much better than me. Bossing me around all the time; “Ian, take your meds,” “Ian, go to work,” “Ian, pick up the pace.” But you don’t know what’s best for me and I’m tired of you acting like you do. Just leave me alone!”
Fiona nudged Liam further behind her and put her hand on her hip, her jaw set.
“Really? It’s like that? Excuse me for giving a shit.”
“Whatever. I have to go take my meds. I don’t need this shit.”
“Oh, and now I’m getting the chin? Real nice Ian.”
He rolled his eyes and raised his middle finger at her as he began climbing the stairs.
Fuck this. Fuck everyone thinking he couldn’t handle himself. Fuck the fact that it was maybe a little true. He couldn’t even feel emotions anymore without someone worrying. He could already feel how much Fiona was worried now.
Yelling at her had not been the plan. The plan was to act fine until he was fine. But he was just so tired of feeling wrong.
—
He took his meds, changed into pajamas, and didn’t get out of bed again for the rest of the evening. Even brushing his teeth was too daunting. He would do it tomorrow.
As he lay there, willing his brain to slow down enough to actually get some sleep, he felt like every sense was heightened. Even that wasn’t normal anymore. Everything was either muffled or too loud. There was no in-between.
He heard Fiona getting Liam ready for bed. “You ready little man?” “Let’s go, monkey.”
He heard Debbie finally come home and immediately start fighting with Fiona. “Yes, I really am.” “No! I want this!”
He heard Fiona call someone. “I don’t know what’s up with him.” “I’m worried about him.” “No, I haven’t been on his case too much.” “What, did you talk to him?”
And there they went again. Talking about him as if he wasn’t there. Like he couldn’t be trusted to take care of himself.
Maybe he couldn’t.
November 9th
He was alone. Again. People on TV were discussing knocking down a wall and some shit about an “open floorplan.” The guy wielding the sledgehammer had nice arms, and Ian found himself staring at the way his muscles moved and the stretch of the guy’s flannel as he absolutely destroyed a wall.
He knew someone who would love to take a sledgehammer to a wall. Someone who he didn’t think about. He didn’t.
Shit. The more he watched flannel guy the more his brain tortured him with memories. Blood on flannel. A tire iron against a back. Wrestling in the street.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Who would be knocking in the middle of the day? It couldn’t be Kev and V, they were at the Alibi. No one else was home.
He planned to ignore it until whoever it was eventually went away, but the knocking was only getting louder and more insistent.
Ugh. He got up and opened the door, and saw one of the last people he would have expected.
“Carrot Boy,” she said as she grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Svet? Hey.” He opened the door wider and she sauntered in, removing her coat and tossing it onto the back of the couch.
Ian followed her as she walked around the living room, picking up things at random and occasionally clucking her tongue disapprovingly. She looked back at him, eyebrows lifted expectantly and sharp chin forward.
“You still crazy?”
Ian’s shoulders sunk. “I’m taking my meds.”
“Good. Do not want you taking сын again.”
He hung his head. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, Svetlana. I never wanted to hurt him.”
She shrugged. “You see Mickey. I visit next week. You come.” She put her hand on her hip and Ian knew she wasn’t asking.
“I can’t. I told you that last time. I’m sorry.” He avoided her eyes, hoping that she wouldn’t make him talk about it any further.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Mickey. He did. He wanted to look into those blue eyes again. Those eyes that looked at him as if he was a beautiful thing; like he wasn’t broken. He wanted to hear Mickey’s voice again. Hear that telltale “Gallagher” and the raucous laughter Mickey saved just for him. Hear the word “asshole” said with so much love and softness behind it.
He wanted to talk to Mickey so badly that he didn’t allow himself to think about it. He didn’t allow himself to think about showing up at the jail. And he certainly didn’t let himself think about making Mickey smile bashfully; about the slight smirk that always broke through before anything else, softening every feature and turning Ian inside out. No. He couldn’t.
“He okay?” Ian allowed himself to ask. He convinced himself it wouldn’t hurt too much. He wanted to know.
Svetlana shrugged again. “He’s in prison, he has broken heart, but he’s alive,” she retorted, her voice dripping in sarcasm.
“Oh.” Ian felt himself sinking down into the couch. He was used to Svetlana’s blunt sarcasm, but he wasn’t prepared for that.
Mickey had a broken heart. And it was Ian’s fault.
He felt her place her hand on his arm. “He seems sad,” she said quietly, almost too quietly for Ian to really hear her. “I seen piece of shit husband be lot of things. But not sad.”
Mickey was visibly sad. In front of Svet. Mickey, who had always been so protective of his emotions that Ian had to fight tooth and nail for the smallest glimpse in. It was hard to imagine what he had looked like if Svet could tell he was sad. It was too much.
“He ask me to ask you to come,” her voice was softer, more sincere.
Ian lets himself think about Mickey. What would it be like to visit him? To see him turn those eyes on Ian; the ones he could just barely remember from the porch. Loving but sad. Betrayed. Resigned.
He didn’t know if he could handle that.
Just then, he heard a key in the lock and the door handle jostling. Debbie entered, hung up her coat, and made her own way into the living room. She was singing quietly and it took her a moment to realize that anyone was in the room.
Ian watched her finally register what was going on. “Svetlana! Hey!” She sounded excited to see the woman, and Ian filed that detail away to ask Debs about it later. “You come to see Ian?” She slumped onto the couch next to him.
She then turned her attention onto him, and he could feel her scrutiny in his bones. “You take your meds today? What about your run? Did you do it?” she asked as if she was reading from a script. How to approach your crazy brother.
He rolled his eyes and pushed off the couch, leaving Debbie and Svetlana engaged in their own conversation. Making his way into the kitchen to grab a pop from the fridge, he was confronted by the family calendar. Another daily reminder that his siblings saw him as a burden. There it was in orange pen. “Ian watch - Debbie.”
Right. He was something to be watched. Something that had to be dealt with.
He popped the tab of his pop and caught snippets of Svetlana and Debbie’s conversation.
“Yeah, he’s okay. He asks about Ian every time.”
Mickey. He couldn’t put Mickey through what he was already putting on his family. He wouldn’t. Mickey deserved better than being on Ian watch for the rest of his life. He deserved to be free.
Even if it meant Mickey hated him. This was something he could do.
There was so much he couldn’t do. He couldn’t have the structure and stability of the army. He couldn’t be trusted. He couldn’t make decisions for himself (apparently). He couldn’t provide for and support his family like he always had. He couldn’t even drink, which was a Gallagher given at this point.
But he could do this. He could protect the man he loved from a life he didn’t deserve. He could open the door to someone who was actually good enough for Mickey Milkovich. He could let him go. (Or at least he could damn well try.)
Having made up his mind, he returned to the living room.
“Ian! Why haven’t you visited Mickey yet?” Debbie basically yelled at him as he walked in.
He let out a deep breath. “Hey Debs, can I talk to Svet? Alone?”
Debbie let out a huff but she moved to get up. “Fine.” She was clearly sulking as she trudged up the stairs, but he could deal with that later.
“We go see Mickey?”
“Svet, I can’t. He deserves better than me.”
She drew her lips in tight, her mouth forming a hard line against her face, and Ian prepared himself for a fight. He would explain to her why this really was the best choice for Mickey. She would understand.
He was about to open his mouth when her face softened into a pleasant smile. Her nostrils flared the smallest amount, but she calmly said “You make choices for him now?”
Ian resisted arguing with her. It wouldn’t do any good. “Look. Can you just tell him I’m okay? He won’t move on if he thinks I’m sick. Please, Svet. Just tell him I’m okay and I’m glad he is too. Help him move on from me. That’s what I want.”
“If you say so.” Her face was neutral and it seemed as if no emotion could break through the wall. She clucked her tongue again as she stood up from the couch and grabbed her coat.
“Say hi to Yev for me. Tell him I miss him,” he was babbling now, trying to mask the obvious atmosphere of awkwardness between them as he walked her to the door.
She chuckled exasperatedly and pulled on her coat, mumbling to herself in Russian. Ian watched her walk back down the street, taking his last hopes of seeing Mickey with her.
It wasn’t that he regretted his decision. He didn’t. As much as it hurt him, he was doing this for Mickey. It was the right thing. But as the shape of Svet got further and further away, so did Ian’s hope of ever being looked at in that way that made his heart melt.
It was official. Ian was now fully and completely alone.
He returned to his slouched position on the couch and flipped back to the flannel man and his sledgehammer, but he couldn’t tell what was happening behind the tears that were pooling in his eyes. As flannel guy showed off something called a backsplash, Ian cried silently, tears running down his cheeks and falling in spots onto his jeans.
November 10th
His hand felt like it weighed a few hundred pounds as he stood outside the door, willing himself to knock. He mentally kicked himself for being a baby about this.
It was just Lip. Sure, he was in college now and he hadn’t been around as much, but he was still Lip. The same Lip who had kept him warm when they were kids and living in a car. Lip would understand.
He stalled for just a bit longer. Down the hall, a girl was desperately knocking on a door and whining about her Sprite. A tall, lanky kid with a too-big backpack bumped into him and muttered an apology as he hurried in the other direction. He grinned to himself. Somehow, it was exactly what he had pictured when he thought about Lip’s new college life.
He brought up both fists and pounded on the door. “Chicago PD, open up! We have a warrant!” he bellowed, doing his best imitation of the Chicago cops who frequently roamed their neighborhood.
The door flung open and a smiling Lip pulled Ian into a hug with an affectionate “Yo!” Ian looked at his brother and the room they were now standing in. Lip looked comfortable and soft, bundled in a loose brown sweater and grey sweats. His curls were slightly askew, like he had been running his hands through his hair only moments before.
“Hey, buddy.”
“What’s up, man?” Lip’s soft smile was like a breath of fresh air. Finally, someone who didn’t look at Ian like he would lose it at any moment.
Ian took in his surroundings. There was a bed in the middle of the room, which was almost covered in various papers. On the wall was a rather large painting of a naked woman, which made Ian chuckle. Oh, Lip.
Lip opened the mini-fridge to the left of the door and removed a tall can. “Want a Red Bull?”
So this was who Lip was now. A real college student who lived on Red Bull and ambition. Wow.
“Nah, man. I was thinking we could grab coffee and talk.” He really needed to talk to Lip, and some hot coffee certainly couldn’t hurt.
Lip padded over to the far wall of the dorm. Ian noticed a messy desk and the nicest computer he’d ever seen perched on top.
“Shit, you know, I can’t, I got a huge lab due. Been up all night.” Lip took a seat at the desk and Ian could see the exhaustion on Lip’s face and the shadows under his eyes. “I’ve also got a class later, but I can hang after. You okay to wait?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Ian took a seat on the bed as Lip turned back to his computer. Something crinkled under him and he found a mess of various papers and notes. Curious, he looked them over and saw neat sentences and complicated formulas. It might as well have been a different language.
“This is some seriously nerdy shit.”
Lip hummed in agreement, already lost again in his fancy college homework. Ian watched his older brother work, occasionally tapping his pencil against his temple, deep in thought. He was muttering to himself under his breath, working through his assignment. Ian fidgeted. The more he sat in this room, the more clear it became to him that this was Lip’s world, and Ian didn’t belong in it anymore.
His breathing quickened and he felt himself beginning to overthink it.
“I’m gonna go find that coffee. See you later?”
Lip hummed again and raised a quick hand in the air before returning to whatever he was doing. Ian left the dorm and stopped just outside the door. He let out a deep breath. Great.
—
He was lost. The campus was so much bigger than he had expected and he never should have left Lip’s without asking for directions. He was sure he stuck out like a sore thumb, wandering around aimlessly amongst the crowds of students who clearly had somewhere to be.
He mustered up the courage to stop someone; a girl in jeans and a high ponytail who seemed to be frantically texting.
“Hey, can you point me to the nearest coffee shop?”
“Sure! There’s a Starbucks in LSC, but personally, I think the best coffee is in Coleman Lounge!”
“Um, thanks.” He offered her a weak smile and headed off in a different direction. He still had no idea.
“Um, Coleman is that building.” She pointed at an old-looking building to the left, across a large expanse of grass. “The lounge is on the third floor, and you can’t miss it from the elevator.”
Ian’s smile was genuine this time. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem!” she flashed him a perfect smile before returning to her phone.
Ian headed toward the intimidating-looking building, crossing the grass that crunched slightly under his feet. College really was a different world, and it wasn’t his.
—
He was sipping on some fancy coffee concoction that he was convinced had no actual coffee in it.
Lip (12:36 pm) My ME class was canceled. Let’s hang.
Ian swiped open his phone and replied.
Ian (12:36 pm) Okay. I’m someplace called Coleman because it has “the best coffee.”
Lip (12:37 pm) You mean that lounge thing with the frilly-ass coffee?
Ian (12:38 pm) Yeah, my coffee is basically straight sugar.
Lip (12:38 pm) Gross. Meet ya there and we can grab somethin else.
Ian (12:30 pm) Ok
While he waited, he watched the other students in the lounge. Each of them was sitting in front of a laptop, deep in concentration. The only sounds were the whirring of the coffee machines and the clicking of laptop keys as people typed.
Lip (12:43 pm) I’m outside.
Ian grabbed his backpack and made his way outside to where Lip was standing. Lip smiled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Have fun?”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it’s super fun to drink bad coffee surrounded by rich kids.”
Lip let out a laugh. “Come on man, let’s get food.”
He let Lip guide him through campus, telling him ridiculous stories about the dumb freshmen he was RA-ing.
“Mr. Gallagher!”
Both Lip and Ian turned in the direction of the voice. It belonged to a middle-aged man with glasses and a checkered button-down.
“Professor Fielding, hi!”
“Hello, Phillip? And who is this?” the man gestured at Ian. It made him feel weird.
“This is my younger brother, Ian.”
“Hello, Ian.” the man offered his hand, which Ian shook. “Are you in high school?”
“Not exactly,” Ian shrunk back. How do you explain that to this guy?
“You looking at transferring to Chi Poly?”
Ian paused and then nodded hesitantly. It felt weird to lie to this guy but he really didn’t want to explain that he was floating through life while everyone around him clung to their anchors or swam.
Lip gave Ian an incredulous look but didn’t say anything.
“Well, we’re off to lunch, but I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” Lip offered.
Professor Fielding nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ian. Goodbye, Phillip.”
Ian followed behind Lip as they continued walking, slightly embarrassed. They entered a large building that was a strange blend of old architecture and modern glass.
“We can eat here. Salad bar’s there, sandwiches there, and some sort of pasta thing there.” Lip was pointing to different stations and Ian was overwhelmed.
“I’ll just get what you get.”
—
They were seated at a small table, each with a prepackaged sandwich. Lip unwrapped his as he asked, “So what was that about with Prof Fielding?”
Ian hesitated. “I just didn’t want to get into it with him, okay? I already feel bad enough.”
Lip went quiet for a minute. “So how are things at home?”
Ian let out a sigh. “Fiona is on my ass 24/7 and I hate my job. No one will let me do fucking anything anymore and someone is constantly watching me. I’m trapped. I just really need to get out of the house.”
Lip nodded along as he ate.
“So I had an idea. What if I stayed here for a bit? You don’t have a roommate, I need a place to stay, it’s perfect. It would be like it was back home but no Carl snoring or Fiona yelling. What do you think?”
Lip swallowed slowly. He took a large sip of his pop.
“Ian…” he paused. “I would love to but I can’t. I have classes and homework and Helene…”
“The professor? Really?”
“Yeah, Ian. I earned my place here and it’s mine. I just can’t share it with you.”
“But you don’t understand. I have no life anymore. Fiona watches my every move. I can’t deal with it. Please.”
“Ian, I wish I could. But I really can’t.”
“Fine.” Ian huffed. They ate the rest of their lunch in silence.
—
Ian boarded the L and found a seat that was open.
As he sat there and watched the nice office buildings transition to the run-down projects, he reflected on his conversation with Lip. There he was, practically begging his older brother for help and what good had it done?
Fucking Lip and his fucking “I earned this.” Ian had gotten to see what his future could have been and he didn’t fucking fit. He didn’t fit anywhere.
He couldn’t even see a future for himself anymore. He remembered when his future was set in stone; he would go to West Point, become an officer, and serve in the army for his early 20s. But now his future looked like living in the same room as his little brother, cleaning up dirty dishes and coming home with his hands raw from hot water day in and day out.
It had been stupid to think Lip would understand. No one saw him anymore, no one understood him. He was doomed to live the rest of his life under the thumb of exactly what they all hated about Monica. Eventually, they would all hate him too.
He would lose them all.
November 11th
Ian flopped down onto his bed, exhausted.
Patsy’s had been a hellzone today. It had started with a group of truckers coming in and yelling about the “proper way to cook an egg.” They had left their table trashed and refused to tip.
That had put Sean in a bad mood, and he kept escaping to his back office, which put Fiona on edge for some reason. Fiona had yelled at him basically his entire shift. He had been snapped at and bossed around by customers and then, to top it all off, a kid had thrown up. Which was apparently his responsibility.
Everything inside him ached and his head was killing him. Stupid meds making him feel like walking death. Lately, he had woken up with the worst headache and his mouth feeling like it was full of cotton. He hated it.
He caught sight of the army posters hanging around his bed. He missed who he used to be. He missed feeling like he could accomplish things and he mattered. He missed contributing to the family and feeling like an equal member of the group. He knew he could get a different job that would give him purpose, but he didn’t have the energy for that. He didn’t have the energy for anything.
He laid there and considered. He drummed his fingers against his ribs. He looked at his nightstand.
It was the meds. The meds were making him feel like this. The meds were convincing him that he was useless. The meds made him slow, made him angry, made him nothing.
Without them, he could help around the house again. Without them, he could find a new job. Without them, he would be better. He needed to be better.
He got up and grabbed the small bottle. Throwing open a drawer and tossing them inside, he already felt better. Out of sight, out of mind.