MEMENTO MORI

𝐨𝐧𝐞

SWEET LITTLE PILL.

I look at it with a yearning expression, wondering, 'is it worth all of this?'. My mind has its own debate with its double — no, triple — voices clawing at each other, and the pill drop when I realise that physically... my body's trying to give up.

It didn't have to be this way, but God aligned this destiny for me. I've always wondered why my path has to end like this. Does God hate me? In the Holy Quran, it says that God loves all his creations; from the mountains to the forests, the insects to the mammals, even inanimate objects that are created by mankind. Is it I, the exception?

Gulp.

Three pills down my throat and I look at myself through the mirror. I'm so pathetic, that's what I would remind myself every day. A pathetic, useless, piece of crap that relies on medication to live another single day. DAMN IT. DAMN IT ALL. I punch the mirror of my bathroom. I wince in pain, realising that there are a few cuts from the pieces of the shattered glass.

'Not that bad,' I think, licking the blood, smearing them into the micro creases of my skin and the taste of iron heavy on the buds of my tongue and strong in my nose. I sigh, washing my hands soon before patting the bloodied evidence with a towel nearby. While doing so, I look at the mirror with an annoyed complexion. "What are you looking at?" I tell the person. "I just punched a mirror, that's all," I hiss.

"But at what cost?" The mirror speaks back. "Hurting yourself to damage God's gift? I don't think so," She chuckles menacingly, which she climbs out through the mirror and stands behind me. Her fingers, soft like mine, caressing my shoulder and up to my neck. I start to produce a choking sound as the fingers — the God forsaken fingers — press into the tube that allows me to breathe, and now I'm not. The hold grows stronger. "STOP BREATHING AND JUST DIE ALREADY,"

I begin to grip for her hands to be off of me, but it seems so difficult because her hold is strong, and I'm weak, especially in this state. My eyelids lower in surrender and I can feel my back sliding against the tiles.

Is this my way of giving up?
I can feel my dinner churning like butter in my stomach.