Incidental Overdose
Julie smiled and reality softened. She had taken too many again, and later she would pay for it, staring sleepless at the ceiling from her single bed. But for now, there was peace. The other patients complained about the antidepressants, citing dulling to the point of flatness, regulated zombification. Often, they refused them, leaving untouched prescriptions dusty and forgotten in medicine cabinets until the point of commitment. And even then, they would tongue their meds, experts at allowing coatings to melt acrid in their mouths before sneaking to bathrooms and spitting untouched chemical cores into lidless toilets.
Julie never understood this, their stubborn insistence on taking their chances with strange demons rather than surrender to the pastel watercolor world of the medication's making. Julie took another. The room swam further away. She sat heavily on the tile floor, her back resting against the wall, her head just below the light switch. All she could feel now was the low ebb of nausea pulsing rhythmically deep in her stomach. Her ovaries twitched and fell silent.
Water rushed through pipes and she heard it faintly as if through layers of cotton batting, a soft alien murmur of comfort. Everything was benign. She decided to stop for now, the peace flowed through her, her blood replaced with warm, leaded Jello. Later she would need more, would have to weep for pharmacists and doctors, would have to sit under their hard eyes and promise to be better. But that was not now. Now there was just the soft buzz of the pale purple Zoloft world. Perhaps, she thought, the hope forcing the muscle contractions necessary to stand, perhaps they would hospitalize her again. She smiled at that, and with the thought of bartering extra doses of Thorazine for filterless cigarettes, Julie reached for another.
Julie never understood this, their stubborn insistence on taking their chances with strange demons rather than surrender to the pastel watercolor world of the medication's making. Julie took another. The room swam further away. She sat heavily on the tile floor, her back resting against the wall, her head just below the light switch. All she could feel now was the low ebb of nausea pulsing rhythmically deep in her stomach. Her ovaries twitched and fell silent.
Water rushed through pipes and she heard it faintly as if through layers of cotton batting, a soft alien murmur of comfort. Everything was benign. She decided to stop for now, the peace flowed through her, her blood replaced with warm, leaded Jello. Later she would need more, would have to weep for pharmacists and doctors, would have to sit under their hard eyes and promise to be better. But that was not now. Now there was just the soft buzz of the pale purple Zoloft world. Perhaps, she thought, the hope forcing the muscle contractions necessary to stand, perhaps they would hospitalize her again. She smiled at that, and with the thought of bartering extra doses of Thorazine for filterless cigarettes, Julie reached for another.