Broken Blood

The Pills That Mother Gave Me

*15 HOURS EARILIER*

A bitter acid burns my lips and slithers down my throat, I’m 8 years old and I’m screaming for my dad, for Sam, for Dean. His burning yellow eyes glare down at me, a sickening smile spread across his distorted face, he laughs but his face never moves.

I burst upright in bed, heart near to exploding in it’s speed. I run the side of my hand across my forehead and feel a slippery sheen of sweat, the only sound in my dark bedroom is the raspy sound of my own heavy breathing. I think of the nightmare and wonder in frustration why it still has such an effect on me even though I’ve been having it since I was six years old. I toss the blankets off of me, swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand. I walk to the window and open it all the way, the cold air drifts in softly and I close my eyes to try and enjoy it, but just as my nerves are calming, my alarm clock blares it’s horrible noise. *5:00 am*

I make my way to my nightstand and aggressively flick off the annoying alarm, plopping back down in bed I lay back down and stare at the ceiling for a minute or two, before sitting back up and reaching in the nightstand drawer. I pull out two pill bottles, from the first I shake out two pills, they are chalk white, long and fat “these are for anxiety” I announce to no one. From the second bottle I take one pill, it is big and circular, deep purple “this, is for my demon”.

“We need two lattes, one with extra cream, one with soy!” I hear the order and begin to mix the coffee “got it!” I say in response. The work is so old to me that I hardly have to watch my hands as they move, mixing and setting timers and pouring, and faster than the customer’s expected, their cups are waiting for them on the counter. I feel a pat on my shoulder and look to see Patrick smiling down at me “showing off again I see” he jokes, I raise an eyebrow before replying, “can’t really help it with so much raw talent”. He snickers a laugh “well, why don’t you, me, and all that raw talent go out sometime?”. This was usual protocol, Patrick has hit on me almost everyday that I’ve worked here (that’s almost a year) and every time I turn him down, but he never gives up, I am now almost certain that he’s been joking about actually wanting to date me, anyone with true feelings for someone else would be too hurt to keep getting rejected everyday…right?

But it doesn’t really matter if he’s serious, or if I want to say yes, I’m a basket case and I have no right to pull a cute, innocent guy into my nightmare of a life. Patrick smiles at me as he waits for my answer, he must know it will be ‘no’, but his smile shines perfectly hopeful, as if this were the first time he’d asked. I take a moment to stare at him, softly dimpled cheeks, shining blue eyes, light brown hair cut short. I blink myself awake and open my mouth to say ‘no’ but am rescued when the voice of a friend replaces mine. “Pat, can’t you get rejected some other time? Quinn actually has work to do”, I know it’s Noel before I have to turn to look, she drapes an arm around my shoulders, her long, black hair is pulled into a messy bun, and as I look at her I remember how amazed I am every time I find how perfectly her skin color resembles a cup of hot chocolate with a mocha swirl, perfectly even, dark and beautiful.

Patrick shrugs and turns away as he says over his shoulder “tomorrow for sure!” I shake my head in disbelief “How does he do it?” I ask quietly. *Why does he do it?* I think. Surely such a screwed over ball of crazy like me couldn’t really be worth the trouble…and being so screwed over, where do I get off rejecting him anyway?

“Told you” Noel’s voice brings me out of my thoughts and I turn to look at her, she’s smiling, her dark brown eyes are gently accented with a lighter brown eye shadow, her long, curled eye lashes wear mascara. “Told me what?” I ask as I realize I haven’t been working for almost five minutes and grab a towel from under the counter “that he’s totally in love with you and wont leave you alone until you go out with him”. Noel spoke in a fluid stream of words as I wiped down the counter, I scoffed at her statement, “yea right, he’s delusional is what he is”, Noel shrugs “yeah, but he wont give up…you should go for it”, I look at her as if she’s crazy “what?” she asks with a laugh, “that boy’s sick Quinn, he needs your sweet medicine to make him feel better” Noel speaks with a slick swivel of her hips and I laugh at her cliché innuendo.

“Espresso and a Mocha!” I quickly stand and answer back: “got it!”.



Evening pills, I sit in the break room in the back of the café, my shift has just ended *2:25 pm*. I pull the first bottle from my purse and shake out two, large, red and white pills “These are for my hallucinations”. I take out the second bottle and shake out one pill, small, square “this is for the pain in my back, as a side effect of my morning pill”. I swallow them with three large gulps of tap water and gather my things to go home, realizing suddenly that I haven’t called Bobby in almost a week.

I walk the small distance to my apartment before pulling out my cell phone to call, I never liked the idea of talking on a cell phone in public, it looks too much like you’re talking to yourself. So, I walk up the steps and shut and lock the door behind me before I have the nerve to pull out my cell and dial the number I know by heart.

“Hello” he answers with his usual grit, “Hey Bobby”, I answer sweetly, he scoffs “I take you in for four years and all I get’s a call every now and again and a ‘hey Bobby?!”. I sigh “I forgooot” I groan as I drop my bag onto the couch and fall down beside it, “nice to know I’m appreciated” he huffs, I laugh “oh hush you old sour Billy goat, hey I’ll come make you some dinner tonight okay? And a great big pie, alright? You think you can forgive me after that?”. He grumbles, “don’t bother, got a big clunker comin in later, guy wants to scrap the whole thing and start from scratch with everything I got on the yard, gonna take a while to gather all the parts”. I sigh quietly, Bobby hardly ever lets me come over anymore, always busy, “well…tomorrow then?” I ask with hope, he huffs and is quiet for a while, “I don’t know…maybe…” I smile, happy with even a chance. “Okay, love you Bobby!” I say happily, he mumbles what resembles ‘love you too’ and I laugh before I say goodbye and hang up.



Nighttime pills. I sit on a stool in my paint room, a small room, it’s walls full of my paintings; portraits of my father and brothers and some of Bobby to, all from various ages taken over the years, almost all with the hospital in the background. I see my father’s vibrant smiles or my brother’s and their silly, distorted glances and find it hard to picture them dead. My painting room’s floor is lined with bottles of paints and brushes, crinkled and stained paper towels are scattered all over the hardwood floor, which is covering in newspaper anyway. The canvas in front of me is a halfway finished painting of me and my father, John Winchester, he smiles brightly at the camera, I am on his back with my hands in his hair. Our faces and only some of our shoulders are in color, as I remembered just now that I needed to take my pills. *8:16 pm*.

I stand in the kitchen, my paint-splattered overalls are unbuttoned and rolled up to fit snuggly around my waist, my black Jim Morrison is wrinkled and speckled with paint here and there. I reach onto the cabinet over the sink and pull out three bottles, from the first I take one, orange oblong pill with a indented line through the middle “this is for insomnia” I announce, from the second I take a pee-sized cream colored pill “this is for the double vision cause by my afternoon pill”, then, finally, I take one that is big, purple, and circular “this, for the second time today, is for my demon…may you burn in hell” I swallow each pill carefully, sure not to choke.

I sigh as I put away the bottles and realize in relief that I’ve gotten through another day of treatment, another day that I’ve avoided cracking completely. A knock comes at the door and I freeze, wondering if maybe I’d spoken too soon. No one ever visits me this late, no one ever visits me period. My heart picks up immediately as a cold chill slips over my shoulders and down the back of my shirt, I creep toward the door, stare at it, as if I could possibly see through to the other side if I only tried hard enough. ~Knock knock knock!~ again…questions and possible answers buzz through my head, but as my night pills have yet to fully take effect, the thought that my demon stands on the other side of the door pushes my heart to beat faster. All I have is my paintbrush, red paint almost dripping from it’s bristles, when I open the door, and in shock, the brush is dropped, the red splatters up, as I see that the undead have found their way to my doorstep at last.