Beginning of the Story

            My eyes fought valiantly against the heaviness of sleep, but they were glued in place. I tried to persuade them to move, but my brain was in no place to give orders. It felt a bit foggy and slow like the aftermath of an all night drinking binge. I could smell a faint stench of vomit. Had I been out all night binge drinking? Retrieving memories was not working at the moment, but somehow, I managed to gather that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My heart began to race and my breaths became short and shallow. With a jolt, I woke up. I hadn’t planned on waking up. In fact, of all the things I thought might come after taking the pills, waking up was not even on the list. Needless to say, I was a bit irritated. No, terrified.

            “Shit.”

            I had been smelling vomit. It was all over me, the bed, the floor, the letters. That bitter acid taste crept onto my tongue, and I could feel the burn of the dissolved medicine on my throat. It felt like someone had poured some gasoline down my throat and lit it the whole way down to my stomach. I’m surprised I could even croak out a cuss word, so I tried again just to make sure I could still talk.

            “Fuck.”

            My favorite word felt good rolling off my ravaged tongue. Now, time to test motor functioning. I lifted one arm at a time, giving the wall the middle finger—just to make sure my hands were also working, of course. Then, I delicately moved my head from side to side, careful not to shake up the hurricane behind my eyes. After testing my legs and toes, I decided it was time to try and sit up. I ached all over and dreaded the pain I was about to experience. I placed my hands underneath my back and pushed slowly. By the time I reached a sitting position, my head was spinning. I willed myself not to pass out again. I had to get cleaned up before anyone saw me like this. Before anyone saw the pill bottle or the soiled letters addressed to friends and family.

            Sitting with all my weight on the hinges of my arm, I breathed slowly and deeply. The dizziness faded back into a dull ache, then, a stabbing sensation behind those heavy eyes. If I had felt good enough, I might have laughed at the irony of a migraine caused by too much Tylenol. But I didn’t feel good enough. I felt like shit. I felt betrayed and embarrassed. I felt afraid. I felt like a joke. Haha. Look at the girl who can’t do anything right, not even death.