I stare at the pill in my hand. It feels too good to be true. The luminous yellow, cylindrical shape holds nothing but deception. I stare at my reflection through the cracked glass. Dark circles hollow my eyes—emptier than my pill container. My hair hangs in a matted knot trailing my spine. What have I done to myself? I remember what occurred hours ago. I was walking through the street, staring at the people passing by. Their eyes were bright, smiles plastered on like lies. They walked with a spring in their step, greeting anyone they saw. They call it a miracle. I call it nonsense. I used these pills once before. Never again. They drown your sorrow in an artificial emotion faker than plastic plants.
The realization hit me hard: swallow these pills or face execution. I groaned and annoyingly banged my head on the mirror. Choices. Choices. Choices—if you can even call them that. I bite my tongue, feeling the metallic taste of blood enter my mouth. I bend down and gulp two mouthfuls of ice-cold water from the rusty faucet, feeling it trickle down my dry throat. I rub my fingers over the pill, squeezing my eyes shut. It is over, all too soon, the pill sliding down my throat, settling in my stomach like a stone. I glance back into the mirror, a smile creeping up my cheeks. As if done by magic, my dark circles brighten, and my hair is now immaculate. I laugh happily. I am finally happy again. At least, that’s what it feels like.
