The Secondhand Fatigue Curse

Todd's lips parted slightly, the truth hovering on the edge of his tongue—and then came the deafening crash of the front door being kicked open.

Anne stormed in, face blazing with fury. She shoved me aside and rushed to the couch, frantically checking on Todd's condition.

"Brett! You insane bastard! What the hell are you doing to Todd?!"

She whirled around, her eyes bloodshot, boring into me like she wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands.

"I should've seen this coming. You're just jealous—you can't stand that Todd is better than you! So you try to destroy him with some cheap, cowardly trick!"

My body was so wrecked from the last few days that I had no strength to resist. Her shove sent me stumbling into the corner of the coffee table. A searing pain shot through my ribs.

"I wasn't—"

"Don't you dare lie to me!" Anne cut me off, yanking the strip of sleeping pills from my bag. Her face twisted into something ugly. "You say you're exhausted? I think you're just bored out of your mind. Since you love sleeping so much, I'll make sure you get your fill!"

She lunged at me, her fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my mouth open. She crammed the entire strip of pills past my lips, then grabbed the water glass from the table and tipped it down my throat.

"Drink! Every last one of them!"

The icy water mixed with the bitter, chalky pills flooded my windpipe. I choked, gagged, tears streaming down my face as I coughed uncontrollably.

She watched me gasping on the floor, not an ounce of pity in her eyes.

"If you ever lay a finger on Todd again, I'll make you disappear. Permanently."

She helped the still-dazed Todd to his feet, cradling him like he was some priceless treasure, and swept out of the apartment.

The door slammed shut behind them, sealing me off from the world.

I lay crumpled on the floor, jamming my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to vomit up the pills she'd crammed down me.

My stomach churned violently, but I didn't care. With the last shred of strength I had, I crawled to the door, pulled it open—and collapsed in the hallway, unconscious.

…

I woke up in a hospital bed. Again.

A nurse told me a neighbor had found me passed out in the hallway and called an ambulance. They'd pumped my stomach, but the overdose had still knocked me out for three days straight.

I lay there, my body weightless, drained of every ounce of energy. Even after sleeping for seventy-two hours, that bone-deep exhaustion clung to me like a second skin.

My chest felt heavy, compressed. Every breath came with a dull, persistent ache.

Anne hadn't visited once.

Good. I didn't want her there anyway.

I stared up at the harsh fluorescent lights, raising a feeble hand to block the glare—then shot upright in bed.

The nurse yelped in protest. I ignored her, yanking the IV out of my arm.

It all clicked into place. The truth hit me like a freight train.

This was how Todd did it. This was how he fed on my life force.

I finally understood.

A few days later, I checked myself out of the hospital. I didn't go home. I took a cab straight to my uncle's holistic wellness retreat upstate.

My grandfather was a well-respected naturopath who'd been practicing integrative medicine for over forty years. When I was a kid with a weak constitution, he'd helped build me back up with supplements, dietary plans, and alternative therapies that actually worked.

The retreat smelled of eucalyptus, lavender, and fresh pine—clean and calming, a world away from the sterile stench of the hospital.

My grandfather took one look at my pale, hollow face and nearly dropped his teacup.

He checked my vitals, ran a few quick assessments, and his brow furrowed deep.

"Kid, what the hell have you done to yourself?" he muttered. "Your blood pressure's bottomed out, your heart rate's irregular, and your nervous system is completely fried. You keep going like this, and you won't last the year."

I didn't explain. I just asked him to help me.

He sighed, shook his head, and wrote out a comprehensive recovery plan—high-dose multivitamins, adaptogenic herbs, amino acid supplements, and a strict anti-inflammatory diet.

Along with the supplements, he designed a daily routine of breathwork and gentle movement exercises.

"Morning and evening, every day," he instructed. "Rebuilds your nervous system, restores your adrenal function. It'll take time, but it'll bring you back from the brink."

He also set me up with weekly IV nutrient therapy sessions—bags of magnesium, zinc, B-complex vitamins, and glutathione dripping straight into my veins. Within minutes of the first session, I could feel the warm flush spreading through my limbs, chasing away the hollow, drained feeling that had become my constant companion.

For the next few weeks, I stayed at my grandfather's retreat. I stuck to the protocol religiously—the supplements, the breathwork, the IV drips, the clean eating. Every day, I felt a little less like a ghost and a little more like a person again.

I blocked out everything about Anne and Todd. No calls. No texts. No social media. I vanished from their world completely.

I was conserving my strength.

Stockpiling my energy.

Waiting.

Because I knew—something was coming. And when it did, I wanted a front-row seat.

Todd, you think you're some kind of productivity machine? You love burning the candle at both ends?

Let's see how long you can last on your own.