Hall 12

The Risks (REVISED)

I clutch them like they're going to slip away.

The pills are warm between my fingers, the dull ends digging into my palm, reminding me of their dominance, their ability to intoxicate me so easily. Am I really going to do this? Am I going to risk it all for...

For what? A chance to feel normal, like myself? Do I really know what I'm doing anymore? Do I know what the point of it all is? Do I realize what I'm going to do?

I've been clean for almost two months. Blue told me how proud she is, how she knows I'm going to-

No, Allison, Depression tells me. She's gone. She left you. She gave up. Why do you have to keep going? Who cares?

I wish I could fight it. I wish I was stronger. I wish I wasn't me. The xanax...they make me me. Blue loved me when I was still a little doped up, when the addiction ran quick and easy through my veins.

I need to do this. I know my risks. I know what I'm losing. But I know I'm going to gain more than what I lose. I have to.

A bottle of water probably wasn't the best choice to take these with. Xanax tastes like bleach with water (I used to love Gatorade, since it'd dull the taste down), but under the circumstances, I think I'd do anything to get them down.

"You know, you were the only one I thought I'd change for," I whisper. There's no way Blue is gonna hear, but I don't want to say I never tried.

"I thought I'd be able to be Allison with you. I thought I could trust you. But you just..." My fists are so tight that the pills almost break my skin, but I can't loosen them without the chance of losing the courage to take the pills inside, "you had to fuck it up. You fucking...you sold me out. You washed me of everything I was and I hope this gets it back, makes me human, makes me happy," I think I'm crying, I don't know, "makes me Allison. I hope...I hope this makes me forget all about you."

2 mg. Xanax. 10 of them.

They're resting on my tongue before I can even stop myself. Then, with a swig of water, they're down.

It takes 30 (40, maybe 50) seconds before they make me feel like a stream of honey. Slow, smooth, sweet.

I smile. My eyes close. My hand feels like electricity when it runs through my hair and holy fuck, this is what I need forever. Not Blue, not Smokey, not Shakey or Zoloft. I need...these. These beautiful white bars that...that...

It only takes two minutes before someone (probably Smokey) knocks at the door. After all, its open-room time.

She might be saying something, but the high blocks it out.

I garble something, probably a salutation, and then my tongue swells and I can't breathe, choking-

And I wake up.

Blue, with her hair splayed out messily on the crisp white pillow next to me, snores softly, her hand on my shoulder.

I roll over, throwing my arms around her middle and holding on tight.

Something's terribly wrong. I realize then that I'll have to find out for myself, before this thing kills me.