Elizabeth (dustkitty) wrote in noivilbo,

Fiction - "Life is Pain"

The pills hadn't worked. Tired and broken, she hadn't bothered to lock the door, and he'd found her, the empty pill bottle lying next to her hand, and she...she was just tired. So tired. She lay on the floor, unwilling to make enough effort to speak, to tell him what she'd done, or why, or even say hello. He'd taken her to the hospital, and they'd pumped her stomach. They'd made her drink charcoal after that, in case there was some remnant left that the pump had missed. It was black and sickly sweet, and she'd chased it with a plastic cup of Sprite. They sat there for hours, he and she, while the man with the purple gloves took her blood each hour, and they flipped through magazines and did not speak.

They did not speak of it afterward, either, when they were home.

Now, she had another bottle. She thought him rather stupid to have left all the medicines in the cabinet, if he had truly been concerned; perhaps he'd only taken her to the hospital because she'd still been breathing when he found her. She had a knife, too. She sat in the bath tub, up to her neck in water, and swallowed the pills one by one, each carried by a mouthful of sweet wine. When they were gone, she lay back for a time before picking up the knife, savoring the duel sensations of infinite heaviness and absolute lightness, as though she were sinking and floating all at once. Moving slowly, as though it were a dream, she picked up the knife and lay its blade against the white skin on the inside of her wrist.
Tags: contemporary fiction
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