I CAN'T SEEM remember the last time I have taken my pills.
It's been a while.
I used to rely on them heavily, but nowadays, I don't need them as much.
They use to make me feel numb and cloud my mind with mild headaches and drowsiness, but I've adapted to them.
When things got tough at home, they became my personal addiction.
My mother insists on me taking them, fearing that I might harm myself, but in reality, it's the opposite.
Without them, the weight of the world feels heavy on my shoulders, and my mind becomes a storm cloud of depression. The sadness is deep, but not enough to make me want to hurt myself.
It only becomes easier to sink into the depths of the clouds I'm floating on.
So when the time comes to begin my senior year of high school, I don't hesitate to swallow the ball of whiteness, eagerly anticipating the effects to kick in.
This year must be a new chapter, a fresh start, a rebirth of the soul.
I can't allow myself to revisit that path, even if it means sacrificing everything.
I've let my mother down so many times by repeating this cycle that I'm stuck in, and it feels like the only way to break free is to give in to the pills weighing heavily in my stomach.
Gazing into the mirror, I find myself brimming with a sense of emptiness.
My under-eye circles are as dark as the dry curls that rest at the nape of my neck.
My eyes are veiled by thick lashes that curl at the base of my brows.
But I don't linger on the lifeless reflection in the mirror, as I gather my belongings and tuck them into my backpack.
I make my way down the stairs, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the empty house. As I reach the bottom, I am greeted by the sight of my mother, who is gathering her things getting ready for work in the kitchen.
She immediately catches sight of me, her lips curl into a gentle smile, and she reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear as she grabs her purse from the counter.
"You look, beautiful baby, you should smile more."
She mentions the melancholy that lingers on my face, knowing that it's not something I can necessarily control. It's not as if I'm attempting to look this way on purpose.
I'm just a sad resting-face bitch.
I go to the fridge to grab a drink and settle down on one of the stools,"There's nothing to be happy about, school is today." I say in annoyance.
Ignoring my snarky remark she asks me the question that she does everyday.
"Amara, have you taken your pills?" Her voice, once soft and sweet, now takes on a somber tone. I know she means well, but sometimes I feel like she only sees me as a vessel for pills; a broken vessel that needs fixing.
I nod in silence, allowing the root beer to cascade down my throat like a cool, refreshing waterfall. Its effervescence tingles against my senses, washing away the fog in my mind and bringing clarity to my thoughts.
"You don't need to worry mama, you will know when I haven't taken them," I say in a convincing tone, hoping she fucks off.
Her gaze lingers upon me, as if weighing the sincerity of my words. But in truth, I care not for her judgement, for my conscience is clear. As long as my hands remain untainted, I am content to let the rest fall away.
