I'll get straight to the point, this is a novel I'm writing from a writing prompt I found on Reddit. This is the first part of 'The Last Dose Of Reality', which is a working title for now. Ideally, I'd love to turn this into a full length book, so please comment any suggestions or feedback; both positive and negative will be received with open arms! Here's the prompt:

Everyone has been infected with a disease with no cure. The only thing keeping humanity alive is a drug that fights the disease, but can't kill it. When you run out of money to keep buying your daily dose, you notice something. You're not dead.

I've tried to model my story on what I believe could actually happen in the not too distant future. Over the whole story I'll be touching on a lot of themes which occur in modern life and politics. Now sit back and enjoy! If at the end you want more, please upvote, comment and follow to be sure to catch Part 2!

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The Last Dose Of Reality - Part 1

It had been 48 hours since my last dose. Money had been tight for a while, I’d known I wouldn't be able to keep buying it. I had been slowly losing customers to the gym across town. I had a reputation of missing a few loan repayments here or there. I’d always managed to make ends meet, but not this month. The moment the letter from the bank slid through my mailbox I knew what it meant; repossession. No gym, no money.

I didn’t have any family left to ask for money. Both parents had died when I was young leaving my brother and I alone. I hadn’t heard from him in a few years. He took their death hard, turning to drugs to cope with it. I had no idea whether he was still alive or not, if anyone asked I told them the latter. It was always much easier that way. I wasn’t keen on opening up, didn’t really like to talk about myself. At first I always tried, but conversation usually led to dark places. It’s funny, people always ask how you’re doing, but if you tell them the truth, they quickly stop asking.

I led a pretty solitary life, I spoke to a few favourite customers. By favourites, I mean the only ones who had stuck around, God only knows why. If it hadn’t been for the forms they signed I probably wouldn’t even have known their name.

The only thing I looked forward to was picking up my dose. The girl at the shop was beautiful. The kind of eyes that seemed to sparkle no matter who you were. I’d had the attention of chatting her up a few times but I always bottled it. Everyone in the neighbourhood went to the same shop to pick up their dose, invariably there was a funnier, better-looking guy around. I didn’t have the courage to risk the last shining light in my life being extinguished. Instead, I kept my mouth shut, content with a smile and the hope those eyes presented.

My last visit had been three days ago, I think she knew something was wrong. Usually I would pick up three days at a time. Everyone else seemed to get a weeks worth at once, I could never afford that; even if I could I wouldn’t. I’d miss those brown eyes too much. Instead, I’d only asked for only one. "Everything alright?" She'd asked, gesturing towards the leaflets on subsidisation. I told her I was moving to a new neighbourhood, I couldn’t let her know I couldn’t afford it anymore.

Nothing would have changed, but what was left of my pride stopped me. I had smiled at her, paused to soak in her beauty one final time, and walked out of the door. Knowing full well that my path from the counter led only to the gallows.

Except it hadn’t.

I’d cleared out the room behind the gym in which I slept. There wasn’t much to it; just my old rucksack, a spare shirt and a bottle of whiskey. With the remnants of my life on the passenger seat, I’d driven my old, 1999 Camaro out to the mountains. I may have once been able to sell it for a few extra months of life, but now the once beautiful bodywork was riddled with rust. Besides, that would have been simply prolonging the inevitable.

When my brother and I were younger our father had been intent on ensuring we could both survive alone in the wilderness. Not that I was now aiming to survive, but I at least wanted to die on my own terms. I remembered with a shudder the occasional news story of someone who couldn’t afford to dose-up anymore. More often than not because they’d spent their money on other drugs, not because they were a failure. The anchorman would always tell the story with pseudo-pity in his eyes; he didn’t care about these people. It just made a good story.

I didn’t want to go out like that. At least this way, it might be months before they found me. With any luck they wouldn’t be able to judge what it was that killed me. There would be no anchorman feigning pity whilst reading my name. That was the plan anyway.

Although here I was, 48 hours after my last dose, still breathing.

They always said that symptoms begin 36 hours after the last dose. First, you would feel short of breath. Then aches would begin. Slowly at first; but quickly increasing until you thought your bones would break from the pain. Then eventually, they would. The weaker, small bones would go first. Fingers and toes would break, tearing through the skin. There was nothing that could be done except wait to die. But of course, broken fingers and toes wouldn’t kill you. No. For the sweet release you had to wait until your skull or rib-cage cracked. A process which they had ensured us could take hours. Hours of unbearable agony.

They’d claimed it was a result of the Great War. Countries had threatened each other with weapons of total destruction. Nuclear warheads capable of wiping out whole country's, chemical weapons that could decimate a population. Most of these had been held as threats, but of course, at some point, threats have to become a reality. The penultimate act of the Great War had been for the enemy to drop a cloud of gas on us. At first, no-one knew what it meant. Then the news reports started.

The pictures were what pushed us over the edge. Seeing our countrymen, shrivelled up in agony, bones protruding from every possible angle. We had to end it after that. We dropped our nukes, wiped out the enemy and unfortunately a few ally neighbours. There was nothing we could do. We had to end the war, and end it we did.

Or at least, that’s what they told us.

But here I am, 48 hours after my last dose. Still breathing. No pain. No broken bones. Watching the sunset with my bottle of whiskey, questioning everything I’d ever been told.

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Here ends Part 1 of 'The Last Dose Of Reality'. Please, any feedback will be greatly appreciated below! Also, if you've enjoyed Part 1 remember to upvote, and follow me @jhcooper7 to not miss out on the rest of the story!