The Billion Dollar Dress

[Chapter 4] Pretty Little Pills

I push down on the faucet that turns the water on in the shower, ready to feel refreshed and clean. The air smells like gingerbread, from downstairs, I guess. The water quickly turns hot and I step inside. The water feels good and warm on my skin. It drips down to the shower floor in a rythme of splitsplatsplash. The drops pitterpatter on my skin, rolling down my back and arms and legs.

Steam is staring to rise around me. A butterfly floats in front of my face lazily. It was the color of the sun, mixed with orange and yellow and red and some black. Float, wing beat, float. It thinks about landing on my face and crawling in my ear and nestling in my brain. Towards the water and under the water and through the water and past the water. The water didn't even touch it. It should have killed it.

I reach down and turn the faucet off without washing my hair. Sliding the glass shower door aside, I wrap my towel around me and stand in front of the mirror. Its so steamed up that I can hardly see my reflection. I wipe it off with the edge of my towel, then open the drawer by the sink and take out my pill box.

They gave me medicine, told me to swallow the pills down every day. I did it at first, faithfully, like clockwork. They would pat me on the head and tell me what a good girl I was for taking them, for letting the crazy-Lea medicine do its magic and make everything feel "better" and turn everything back to normal. 

They've warned me before of what will happen if I skip taking my pills. I already knew for myself though. More often than not I skipped them.

Thursday means seven pretty little pills. I pop them into my mouth and swallow. But only three go down my mouth and into my stomach and into my blood and into my brain. One, two, three.

One time I forgot to take the crazy-Lea medicine. I can't remember if it was on purpose or not, but I'm glad I did. I figured them out that day: my parents and the doctor and my physchatrist and my theripist and all the other people. They just wanted me to stay asleep and in dreamworld; they still do. 

If I take all the pills, my mind goes to sleep and I won't ever wake up. If I take all the pills, my body and my brain do everything on autopilot and my real self is stuck inside, buried under miles and miles of cobwebs and foggy windows. If I take half of the crazy-Lea medicine, I stay awake just enough to see what I'm doing. Half = able to see partially through the steamed up glass. Half means able to breathe, although I can't fill my lungs all the way, I can still take one lungfull of breath, even though it hurts. 

If I skip my pills, I can float through the air and walk through water. I can have complete control over myself and the world and do anything I want. 

Four pills left in my hand. One, two, three, four. Blue, red, yellow, blue.

I once caught the maid in my bathroom looking in my pill box. I think my parents made her, to see if I'd taken my pills, I guess. I'm pretty sure the box is checked every week.

I flush them down the toilet. I can't let my mind or my body or my blood be taintedinvaded by them today. Everything feels clearer without them.

**** 

I sit in my room. A book is laying on my lap, demanding attention from someone who can not give it what it wants. About an hour ago the pages started turning by themselves and I've been somewhat afraid to touch them since. The words had blurred into nothingness long before.

A knock sounds from my door.

I don't move.

No one from my family should be up. I look at the clock on my bedside table. 4:33 a.m. I'm usually up at this time. I shouldn't be up.

A couple seconds pass, then the door opens and a little boy with blond hair walks in. There is a knife in his chest and blood dripping down onto my previously spotless white carpet. This is completely normal and nothing is wrong.

I throw the book with the moving pages on the floor and bury myself under a mound of blankets and wait for the boy to leave.

He stands over my bed all night and tries to suffocate me a couple of times. I almost suffocate due to the layers of covers and stuffy air. I try not to scream when my morning alarm goes off next to my ear. I thought it was the boy screaming when his mother who came in an hour ago stabbed him again.

I practically sprint to the bathroom and gulp down a glass of water. My hands along with the rest of my body is shaking. I hate this feeling. The pill box is next to me.

Each and every pill splashes down into the toilet and out to whoknowswhere. I may or may not have taken my medicine.

This chapter is long overdue, but here you go! xx Btw, sorry if the spacing, font, anything else is weird, my laptop is jacked up. The italics are what she saw happening if that makes things clearer. On my laptop the words in italics are in subscript and it makes more sense but they wouldnt upload that way on here so this was the best I could do. - Jessica