I'm holding this pill bottle, filled with prescribed medication I don't need. I'm trying to decide whether or not I should down the contents of the bottle, and end my suffering. See, my wife and kids were killed in a terror attack last year, and I've often found myself staring into an empty beer bottle, or into a mirror, looking at the stranger I see there. I no longer know who I am, my name is Adam, of course. What I mean is, I don't know what role life has to offer me. It seems as if the pill bottle is begging me to eat it it's insides. I'm swirling the bottle in my hand, listening to the pills slide across it's smooth interior. I don't understand what monsters would take my family from me.
My tightened grip shatters the bottle, it's hard plastic slicing my hand and drawing bright red blood. I hear the pills skitter and slide across the floor,catching in grooves on the ground. As my blood flows freely from the half dozen cuts in my hand, I finally understand what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. My brow furrowed in anger and hatred, the veins in my neck bulging and throbbing, I step outside to find the men who ruined my life, and so many others.
