Two tablets a day keeps the feelings away.
The words whirled around in Conor's head as he opened the drawer next to his bed and pulled out the blister packet. He'd lost the packaging for it a while ago, but he didn't need it. He could recall exactly what it said without even thinking about it now. All the stuff about storing it at room temperature, and away from heat and light, or how you were supposed to use dry hands to remove the tablet and that you had to peel back the foil instead of pushing it through; he wouldn't be able to forget it if he tried.
Conor didn't like having to take medication. He hated how numb Risperidone made him feel, but it was supposed to be better than feeling too inspired to sleep as the thoughts raced through his head, or feeling too weighed down by everything to even get out of bed. But, Conor didn't feel like himself after taking Risperidone.
He sat on the edge of his bed with tablets in his hand. This happened every day, the debating of whether he really wanted to take them. He always ended up taking them anyway, because his nurse, Taylor, always told him to if he hadn't taken them already.
He sighed and brought his hand to his mouth. He sipped some water and closed his eyes.
One day, he hoped he'd never have to take Risperidone again. He just had to hope that day would actually come.
As if on cue, the door opened.
"Did you take your meds?" Taylor had the same expression he always had when he asked that. It was kind, but Conor didn't like how sympathetic Taylor looked. Conor didn't want Taylor's sympathy.
Conor sighed, "Yeah."
"Okay, good," Taylor seemed to lighten up, "Because you've got a phone call."
There was a sinking feeling in Conor's stomach, but he got up from his bed anyway, stuffing the blister packet into his back pocket. He followed Taylor to the foyer, even though he knew the way by himself.
He smiled at Jess, the receptionist, as he approached the desk. She handed him the phone and turned back to the computer. At first glance, it looked like she was busy, a look of concentration on her face, but then Conor looked at the screen and realised that she was just playing solitaire.
Leaning on the desk, he brought the phone to his ear and cleared his throat. "Hello?"
"Conor!" The voice was so loud that even Jess glanced up for a moment. "When the hell are you getting out?"
"Getting out? What do you mean?"
"The neighbours are asking about you again," the woman on the phone barked, "And I'm running out of excuses to give them."
Conor rolled his eyes. "Then stop giving them excuses."
"Well, I can't give them the truth."
Conor sighed, "No, of course not. You don't want the neighbours to know that I'm an attention-seeking piece of shit." He adds, "Your words, not mine."
"Exactly," she said, either not noticing the sarcasm, or ignoring it. "So when are you coming home?"
"I don't know."
"You must know!" She sounded exasperated, "You can't be there for much longer. We get it, you want attention, you've got it now. Honestly, there were better ways of getting attention than admitting yourself to a mental hospital."
Conor stared blankly at the desk. "It's not for attention."
"Well, if it's not for attention then what is it for?"
"Hm, I don't know," he was being heavily sarcastic now, "Maybe because I actually want to get better."
"Get better?!" She was getting angry too. "There's nothing to get better from!"
