by Erin L. Nappe
(published at No Noun-Sense.com, September 2000. Original document no longer available.)
The bottle shook in Sam’s left hand as she poured a glass of water. She read the label.
Take one pill daily, before bedtime. Do not exceed recommended dosage.
She dumped the contents onto her bed, and counted. 30 pills. She wondered if it would be enough.
What am I doing, Sam thought. How long will they take to work? How long before someone finds me?
She stared at the pills, long, and chalk-white, floating in the floral background. She picked one up, wrapped her fingers around it. It seemed to fill her whole hand. She wondered how it could possibly go down her throat.
I’ll just go to sleep. Just go to sleep and not wake up.
She hadn’t slept in weeks. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Drew’s face. Saw his green eyes boring into hers. Felt his hands pressing into her shoulders, the weight of his body on top of hers, pushing her into the seat. Smelled his stale-beer breath, heard him hissing into her ear.
“Oh, Sam, you feel so good. I want you, baby. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She wanted it to stop. She wanted Drew out of her head. She set her glass of water on the night stand, and reached for Pooky. She crossed her legs, drawing the ancient bear to her chest. She breathed into its white, matted fur, and tried to push Drew from her mind.
“I know you want it too. Tell me. Tell me you want me.”
Sam shivered. She looked down at the empty page in her journal. It had always been her comfort, her friend. She’d tried to write it down, to get her feelings out of herself and into the book, but nothing would come. She remembered the pill in her hand.
“This will make you go away. Forever,” Sam said. She picked up the water, and brought the pill to her lips with a trembling hand.
She laid the pill on her tongue, and closed her eyes. The pill’s bitter coating started to dissolve on her tongue. She gagged and spat the pill onto the floor.
The glass slipped from her hand, tumbling in slow motion. Water soaked Sam’s quilt. She winced at the sound of the glass splintering when it hit the floor. A sob pushed its way out her mouth as she swept the pills from her bed, heard each one clack against the hardwood.
Sam let the tears come, let the anger and terror flow from her body.
“Go away, Drew,” she choked. “Go away. Go away. Go away.”
She curled into a ball, clutching her faithful childhood companion, and cried into her pillow until sleep took over.