30 Pills or Less...

I stared at my face in the mirror, looking at the beams of liquid pouring from my eye sockets. I choked on my nixed emotions. All I could think of was all the things in my life I’ve done wrong and come to regret. I pulled the mirror open, revealing three rows of pills and medication. I began to skim the back of them, reading the ingredients, not quite knowing what I was looking for. I finally selected a large container with the word Ibuprofen written in bold font with two salmon colored tablets on the front. I was confused and hurting, all of my thoughts were irrational, seeming to be controlled by my demons and shame. “Give or take six months, your family and so called “friends” will get over it.” They hissed in my head, their words poured poisons, sounding like terms that trickled from my moist lips. The voices pulled harder and harder at my heavy heart, causing me to spiral downward into a deeper depression.

Dressed my best with my purple eyeliner streaming down my face; I twisted the lid of the container, allowing a hand full of capsules to fall into my trembling palm. I filled the transparent glass in my mother’s bathroom with tap water, not minding its bitter taste on my tongue. I didn’t know if this would work, I didn’t know if I’d end up coming face to face with God or Buddha or whoever’s up there, but I put the first tablet in my mouth, then drowning it with the semi-tasteless fluid in the glass. I felt it roll down my throat, scraping the lining of my esophagus, knowing it would take more than the time I had to hit the bellows of my belly. I took the rest of the pills that rested in my palm one by one, counting them like a skeptic counting the hours in disbelief.

Within minutes my hand was empty. I felt fearfulness, but relief. It was an odd sensation, like the butterflies in my stomach just gave up on flying and lay dead in the bottom of my belly. I thought about all the beauty of the world and how badly it treated me. I thought about my family; my mother and father would cry as my corpse was lowered into the earth and my sister would look away, fearing death will shed and overcast her sky next. I thought of my only friend, Amelia. How I would miss her smile and laughter. Than I remembered why I was doing this, why I was ending my pathetic existence. Those who scowl in my presence, fling fists and rocks at me, and label me as “faggot” and “ugly dyke.” The sadness and masochism of my life became overwhelming. I was torn; live and be tortured, or die and torture those who I loved.

I scribbled a few last words on a piece of parchment, not knowing if I was to live or give up. I tucked it inside my bra, not knowing who would read it, the doctor who saw multiple like me; unsuccessful at ending their life, forever mangled and deformed the mortician, or a member of my family. All that was left was to wait. Wait for the end, or a horrible new beginning.