The world seemed cold—smaller. He knew why—but didn't. How could he? He was sick. He needed his medication. But those pills terrified him.
They really did.
He looked at the bottle—looming. The word had new meaning—a spectre of an idea, its wings unfurled into the event horizon of a black hole, now just a reminder of past failures and past hopes extinguished by so many other capsules, swallowed in vain. But everything else was black, and everyone else was grey, and everything dark was white.
Something trembled in the distance - large, unfathomable, unpredictable.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The trembling and quaking continued, soon mirrored in his own knees, and they were as unsteady as the loaded cocktail of chemicals revolving around his brain, screaming, laughing, silent.
"It's cold out," he whispered. He said this because he knew the world was growing cold now. "It's cold."
The memories—the people?—were beyond recollection. All he could remember was the inches of pain, marked one by one, anniversary by anniversary, mark by mark. Some of them were now visible, some were ghosts of their past pain. They all had stories, and there were many stories to tell—the climax, inevitable—the ultimate scar.
But he instead looked at the pills—swept them into his drawer. He denied the neurochemistry, he ignored the prescribed suggestions, and just swallowed the invisible pill he'd held all along—the pill some called suicide, others called dissociation, and some even called life.
The best revenge is bringing suffering to those who deserve it, he thought. But no one had ever made enough of an impression to deserve it.
