Secrets Kill!

What Was Really Going On

WARNING: This story may be HUGELY TRIGGERING for some. Stop reading now if descriptions of using substances or the real stories of people suffering from untreated concurrent disorders trigger you.

The story you are about to read is a composite of true stories. To protect the privacy of the person, names and identifying details have been changed. These changes may include, gender, age and race.

STOP! - take a moment before reading further, put on your headphones or turn up your speakers. Click on our audio play button. Listen in on our AI-generated deep dive (two-host discussion) as this amazing AI tool generates incredible insight behind the writing.
Henry had always been a hard worker. For nearly fifteen years, he worked as a millwright at a sawmill, a place where sweat and grit were badges of honour. His days were filled with the constant roar of machines, the metallic tang of burning metal, and the unyielding heat from the welding torches. He took pride in his work — the kind of pride that comes from knowing you’re putting food on the table and a roof over your family’s head.

But five years ago, everything changed. It happened in an instant. A momentary lapse in focus, a machine malfunction, and then pain, blinding and all-consuming.

The heavy steel beam swung out of nowhere, knocking him from the scaffolding. He fell hard, a bone-crunching impact that shattered his left leg and fractured several ribs. He was rushed to the hospital, his body broken, his future uncertain.

The doctors did what they could — plates, screws, and pins to hold him together. For ten long months, he was bedridden, unable to work, unable to move without agony slicing through his body. The only thing that dulled the relentless pain was the oxycodone the doctors prescribed. At first, he took them sparingly, just enough to sleep at night. But soon, he needed them more and more. The pills blurred the edges of his pain, turning the screaming in his nerves into a whisper, and for a while, they were the only thing that kept him sane.

Then, without warning, his doctor refused to renew the prescription. “We need to get you off these, Henry,” the doctor had said, his voice clinical, detached. “The pain should be manageable by now. Oxycodone is highly addictive.”

Henry had nodded, too proud to argue, too exhausted to fight. He went home with nothing but a couple of Advil and a growing sense of dread. That’s when the real agony began — the gnawing, clawing withdrawal that seized his body, worse than the pain from his injuries had ever been. His skin felt like it was on fire, his muscles cramped, his mind was a chaotic mess of anxiety and need. Sleep was a distant memory; he spent his nights shivering and sweating in equal measure.

A friend who knew a friend got him some unregulated opioids from the street. Counterfeit oxycodone pills. Henry knew they weren’t real oxycodone, but they looked just like the real thing. Nope, these were full of fentanyl, but beggars couldn’t be choosy. Henry had no choice and besides they were meant to be a temporary solution, a way to get through the worst of it. But it wasn't temporary. That first taste was all it took. It soothed the ache, quieted the demons in his mind, and made him feel — for a fleeting moment — like himself again. But the relief was short-lived. The need came back stronger, hungrier. One pill turned into two, then three,— whatever it took to keep the darkness at bay.

Now, here he is, five years later, living a double life. To everyone else, he is still Henry: husband, father of three, the man who limps a little when he walks but still goes to work every day at the mill. The man who smiles at his neighbours, who jokes with his coworkers, who is always willing to lend a hand. But underneath, there’s another Henry — one no one sees. The one who wakes up every morning with a pit in his stomach, not knowing if today will be the day he finally goes too far.

Henry wakes up before dawn, his body already screaming for those pills. His hands shake as he fumbles in the dark, his fingers searching beneath the bed for the small stash he keeps hidden there. He finds the little baggie and gulps down three pills, the familiar mix of shame and relief washing over him. His wife, Jenna, is still asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady. He looks at her for a moment, his chest tight. She has no idea. She can’t know. Not about this.

It's slower with pills, but he can’t take the risk of other ways to take opioids. People would find out! The rush finally comes, the warmth spreading through his veins, the pain dulling, the anxiety melting away. For a few moments, everything is quiet. He can breathe again.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His face is drawn, the lines deeper than they used to be, his eyes hollow. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re fine,” he whispers to himself. “Just keep it together.”

By the time he heads to the kitchen, Jenna is up, making coffee, her back turned to him. He sneaks a breath, puts on his mask, and greets her with a kiss on the cheek. She turns, smiling warmly. “Morning, love. You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, just fine,” he lies. The words taste bitter in his mouth. He distracts himself by making breakfast for the kids, the familiar routine calming his nerves. He drives them to school, waving goodbye as they disappear through the gates, their backpacks bouncing on their shoulders.

At work, he moves through the motions. The mill is a symphony of noise and movement, the machines whirring and grinding, the air thick with the smell of metal and sweat. He grits his teeth, muscles straining as he lifts, carries, moves heavy loads. His leg aches with every step, but it’s nothing compared to the other pain — the one that claws at his insides, demanding more.

By noon, the high has faded. He feels the anxiety creeping back, the need growing, insistent, impossible to ignore. He slips away to the bathroom, locks the door, and quickly downs another dose of pills again. The relief comes slowly, but he knows it won’t last. It never does.

After work, he goes through the motions again — picking up the kids, helping with homework, dinner with the family. He smiles, he laughs, pretending everything is fine. But his mind is somewhere else, counting the hours until he can retreat to the bathroom, to the privacy of his secret. Jenna asks him if he's okay more often these days. He always brushes her off with a smile and a kiss. "Just tired," he says. "Long day at the mill."

Lately, he’s graduated to some different pills. The guy he gets them from assured Henry it would help. They counteract the sleepiness of the fentanyl. These have something in them called Meth as well as opioids.
 
But today, something feels different. He’s taken more than he usually does. His heart races, his vision blurs at the edges, and his hands are cold, clammy. He excuses himself, heads to the bathroom, and locks the door. He leans against the sink, breathing heavily, trying to steady himself. He knows he should stop, should slow down, but the pain is back, sharper than ever. He reaches for his stash again, hands shaking as he searches his pockets for his baggie of pills.

This time, after taking the pills, he feels something different — a sudden, stabbing pain in his chest. His breath catches, panic rising in his throat. His heart is pounding, a frantic rhythm that makes his head spin. “No, no,” he whispers, sliding down to the floor, the cold tile pressing against his skin. His vision darkens at the edges, the room spinning around him.

He hears a knock at the door, Jenna’s voice, muffled, worried. “Henry? Are you okay?”

Henry wants to answer, to call out, but the words won’t come. His heart feels like it’s going to explode, every beat a hammer against his ribs. He hears the door handle rattle, Jenna’s voice louder now, more frantic. “Henry! Open the door!”

With a surge of effort, he reaches up, fumbles with the lock, and the door bursts open. Jenna’s face is a mask of fear, her eyes wide, taking in the scene before her — the baggie on the floor, pills cascaded around it, the look of pain on his face.

“Henry, what have you done?” she cries, dropping to her knees beside him, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t want you to know…”

Tears stream down Jenna’s face as she pulls him close, rocking him gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she sobs. “Why didn’t you let me help?”

He feels the darkness creeping in, his body weakening, but he clings to her voice, her touch, the only anchor in the storm inside his mind. “I’m scared,” he whispers. “I’m so scared…”

But his words fade into silence. His heart gives one final, desperate thump and then stops. The light in his eyes flickers, then goes out.

Jenna’s scream echoes through the house, raw and broken. She presses her hands to his chest, tries to shake him awake, but he is gone, slipping away from her grasp, leaving her in a world that suddenly feels colder, darker, emptier.

Ambulance and Fire arrive, but it’s too little, too late.

---

Epilogue:

In the days that follow, the impact of Henry’s death ripples through the community like a shockwave. At the mill, his coworkers gather in stunned silence, processing the news that the cheerful, hard-working guy they saw every day was hiding so much pain. They share stories, some in disbelief, others with a new understanding of what they might have missed. The weight of his secret presses on them, a grim reminder of how little they knew the man they thought they understood.

His family is shattered. Jenna can’t stop crying, her heart breaking every time she looks at their children — three pairs of eyes asking questions she doesn’t know how to answer. She tries to explain to them that Daddy was sick, that he didn’t want to leave, but it feels hollow, insufficient. His eldest son, just old enough to understand that something has gone terribly wrong, blames himself. “Why didn’t I see?” he whispers at night, curled up in his mother’s arms.

Friends and neighbors are left to grapple with the shock and confusion, questioning themselves, questioning each other. How could someone so seemingly okay be living with a pain so deep and so invisible? The words "addicted and opioids" hang in the air like a curse, a spectre no one wants to face.

Family and close friends begin to confront the stark reality that the drug crisis does not discriminate. The myth that overdoses only happen to “street people” shatters under the weight of their grief. Henry has provided a stark and painful reality that addiction can seep into the lives of anyone, even those who seem to have it all together — a hardworking father, a devoted husband, someone who lives in their neighbourhood and shares their values. Overdoses aren't reserved for the homeless or destitute; they strike doctors, factory workers, students, and parents alike. The crisis is indiscriminate, hiding in plain sight, touching every corner of society. Too late, they see that addiction is not a moral failing or a crime of poverty, but a public health crisis, a complex web of pain, desperation, and lack of access to compassionate care.

The Author: Ron Merk – Ron advocates for people and families experiencing concurrent disorders.