I pop the pink pill. The one little pill that keeps me from slicing my wrist open today. The pink pill which in the world of pills I’ve seen is a medium size, with a poisonous effect.
“Who the hell do you think you are.” I glare at the bottle of so called happiness that I hold in my hand. As if the bottle turned to fire in my hand I throw it across the room, knocking down a picture from the wall.
I regain sanity and walk across the room as if stepping on nails the whole way. I pick up the picture of a small girl sitting perfectly posed upon a stool. Fake, so fake. Still things must be kept orderly or the world will end. So says mom.
The girl has blond hair, and in the picture in about four feet tall. A smile is spread consistently across her face exposing teeth she had yet not grown into. This girl was a perfect, pale picture. You'd do anything to see that again, right mom? I place the picture on the wall of perfect pictures.
I slowly draw to the conclusion that taking pills is just a ritual to make moms happy and actually have no effect on the person taking them. I stair at the wall of perfect pictures till my eyes end on one of dad. He stands tall, actually smiling. I think back to the days we used to go fishing together, the whole family, even mom. Those days are gone. They don’t mean shit now, Erica.....
I know.
It seems some flow of evil runs through my veins and persuades me to pick up the photo. I trace dad’s outline, like I have so many times before, and carry the picture to my bed. Mom will be home soon! The little girl stands next to dad in the picture, her arms wrapped around his leg. He was never hers. Envy is sparked inside me, I used to be that little pale, picture perfect girl.
He would of stayed if I had stayed that way.
You know that is not true.
I know.
The clock must hate me as it shows 2:23 p.m. so proudly. Seven minutes Erica! You promised. This time for real.
I know.
I march to the bathroom after grabbing the bottle of pills off the floor. In the bathroom, I stand posed in front of the mirror as a perfect picture of failure. My hands shake violently while unscrewing the lid. I look up at my reflection in the mirror. Bad mistake.
Who are you? I scream but the words never touch my lips
Who are you? I scream loud and only whispers are heard.
WHO ARE YOU?My reflection screams it back at me.
My fist, clutching an opened bottle of pills, goes flying at the mirror. Pills go flying all around me as my fist collides with the glass and sharp pain flares up. Four big shards of glass landed at my feet. One dug into my leg. I pull it out in a swift move. You asked for it. I promised it.
I know.
Blood soaks the end of the shard of glass, and I rub it against my finger tip. Little specks of blood appear. Do it. NOW. I plunge the glass dagger into my stomach, first only a little, and then again further. Two holes in my once perfect shell. C’mon bitch, they can’t save you now.
I know.
For the last time I take the glass shard and slam it into me, puncturing a lung. This is it! The excitement is to much to bear, until I hear the door open.
“ Honey, I’m home!”
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