The Blues

He sits in the middle of the night smoking cigarette after cigarette wondering what his life has come to. How he can begin again. Nothing inside these four walls has the answer. He rises, paces…turns the television on, off, on and then off again. He picks up the phone only to realize there’s no one to call. A voice in his head tries to calm him but only makes it worse. Anxiety, terror… the fear of losing his mind… are all he can process. There’s no sleeping now, for the unreasonable fears of what could happen already crept in. He could awaken, snap into reality and find himself wandering the streets, barefoot, naked, not remembering his own name. He worries if he thinks it; it can happen yet is unable to control these extreme images flashing before him.
His heart is pounding as he moves from corner to corner of the small room. One voice in his head reminds him of the bottle. The bottle in the kitchen cabinet. In the cabinet on the shelf. The bottle with the little blue pills. The tears come now, tears of yet another voice, the voice of resistance. The first voice is strong, calling him a coward. Saying if he had any pride, any self respect, he’d do it, take them all. He goes to the kitchen, to the cabinet, to the shelf and retrieves the prescription bottle displaying his name. Opening the bottle he pours the entire contents into his left hand. Holding them brings comfort. "Take them, you will finally be at piece" the first voice now calmly reasons. "There will be no more suffering. No more worry or anxiety nor insanity." But the tearful voice tells him he cannot. It reminds him of the people he’d hurt, how no one will find him in time to save his life. And isn’t that really what he wants… to be saved? The battle ensues, one voice pitted against the other. He walks to the bathroom mirror. Two faces are staring back through him. A face of torment, pleading for the strength to take all the blue pills and a face of desperation, pleading for the strength not to. Disgusted with who he sees, he moves to his desk, still holding on to the comfort. He’s tired of the pain, tired of feeling hopeless… tired. He places most of the pills on the table one by one, still clutching several in his hand and crawls into bed, sobbing. He can sleep now. For now, at least, the struggle slowly fades into the linens. Exhaustion has saved him.