I fiddled around my mother's cupboard, looking for some clue. I
wasn't absolutely sure what I was looking for. Maybe something that would
explain the tremulous smiles, and the watching me sleeps and the long,
Reaching to the back, my hand closed around a cylinder-like object.
Pulling back, I found a small, blue-tinted, transparent container. A
medicine bottle. Turning it over, I read it, quickly making out the worn
letters "Anti.. Depress.ant. Antidepressant."
I was too shocked to be angry at that time. I just sat there, staring
at the bottle. Sitting on the floor of my mother's bathroom. To this day I
ask myself, "what the hell was I thinking?" The truth is, I'm not quite,
sure. I opened the bottle. Removed the small white capsule, turning it over
in my fingers. Squinting at it. Studying it at all angles and in all
Surely my mother didn't need these. She could only take certain
pills, 'cuz the normal chemical ones were bad for her, she needed to stick
to organic, and these were definitely chemicalized.
Suddenly it dawned on me. Mine. These were MY antidepressants. These
were my pills. I think maybe, though I seemed calm on the outside, I was
panicking on the inside. How long had she been slipping these? Where? In my
food? The water? The wine? For the love of god and everything pleasant and
sweet not the wine! Did she know about my wine stash? I wondered, how much
DID she know, really? Did she know about me and Fay Thompson? The backseat
of her car? Oh dear lord no. Did she know about the pot? My heart tensed,
shuddered, and skipped five beats. Did she know about the playboy stash
under my bed? No. This couldn't be happening?
Get a hold of yourself, she couldn't know about any of those things.
I did a daily hiding area replacement. What's more, the pot was not stashed
in my room. It was, in fact, stashed behind the lamp in my ceiling, which
was broken. The rum and the wine were all in an old suitcase up high in my
closet. Along with my dear bailey's. The porn magazines were, in fact,
covered in black paper with random titles on them so as to make them seem
like old schoolwork. And Fay Thompson is still a virgin. As far as everyone
but me and my buddy knows.
So why did she slip me the anti-depressants? Simple. She thought I
was depressed. I looked at the bottle again. Popped the capsule in my
mouth. Poured three more in my hands. Down them too. Within ten minutes I
had dutifully consumed the entire bottle. Lying back on the pink and blue
tiled floor, I held a mirror above my face and contemplated my reflection.
I had dark hair, almost black, worn a little too long and a little
too loose, curling at around my ears and neck. My eyes were a clear
contemplative blue. My nose, too narrow, too straight. A psycho-path smile
and a seemingly delicate face. I'm thin. Tall, but thin, and lanky.
As I lay there, I dropped the mirror, watched it crash on the floor,
and giggled to myself as glass flew and cut my face.
I heard the slam of a door.
I laughed again. Closed my eyes, and waited for someone to give me a
light to run into.