Solution
The pills came in a white envelope, sixteen yellow tablets the size of unshelled peanuts, unmarked. Instructions were typed on a small card inside: "Take one with food every 24 hours, or as needed. Do not take more than four pills in a 24-hour period no matter how severe the symptoms. The most common side effect is drowsiness." I took a pill with a stale English muffin I found in the kitchen and waited.
I guess it's cheating but there's no reason for me to feel this bad. Humans are too hard on themselves. Guilt can become a chronic illness; if you don't quell it early on, it can reshape your personality and turn you into a freak. There are plenty of classic cases: Blanche DuBois, Macbeth, Raskolnikov, Willy Loman. Characters who did what they had to do. Justified in their actions. They suffered long and hard, too much, considering the circumstances. There are criminals who've done much worse, who've raped children, started wars for personal glory, and plenty of them lived with clear consciences.
Greg hooked me up with this guy who calls himself a biochemist. I called the number on the business card and ordered a two-week supply of "conscience pills." They work kind of like anti-depressants, only they isolate and inhibit the neurotransmitters most associated with guilt and remorse. That's what the guy told me on the phone. His spiel was short and vague, just how I wanted it.
I feel a little better after two hours, though I'm not sure if it's because I think I'm supposed to feel better. What do I care if it's all a placebo effect? As long as the pain's gone...
I wake up on the living room floor and it's nearly 7 in the evening. Scanning the house is depressing; I've been living in filth for the last week. Garbage and dirty clothes are strewn everywhere. There are plates of uneaten food. I don't even remember cooking or ordering out. I feel acute, very aware of my surroundings. I notice things I've been missing, like the calendar on the far wall that hasn't been flipped since April. I try to get up to turn it to September but I can't. I'm glued to the wall. My brother bought me that calendar...
The pain's back. It's so fucking bad I take another pill. There's a bottle of Dewar's on the coffee table and I drink the few ounces that are left to wash it down, gagging at the taste. I watch TV, an episode of King of the Hill but fall asleep during the first set of commercials.
My dreams aren't of her, thank God. I'm asleep for who knows how long. That's what they do, the pills...they knock you out so soundly that you don't have time to mull over the what-ifs. You can't remember your dreams when you wake up. I can't see her face, her reaction, the way she lost her balance and fell to the floor when I said what I said. That scene was playing over and over in my head all week; now I'm a baby, passed out like I had too much milk, blind, stupid, and gone. I don't even exist.
I guess it's cheating but there's no reason for me to feel this bad. Humans are too hard on themselves. Guilt can become a chronic illness; if you don't quell it early on, it can reshape your personality and turn you into a freak. There are plenty of classic cases: Blanche DuBois, Macbeth, Raskolnikov, Willy Loman. Characters who did what they had to do. Justified in their actions. They suffered long and hard, too much, considering the circumstances. There are criminals who've done much worse, who've raped children, started wars for personal glory, and plenty of them lived with clear consciences.
Greg hooked me up with this guy who calls himself a biochemist. I called the number on the business card and ordered a two-week supply of "conscience pills." They work kind of like anti-depressants, only they isolate and inhibit the neurotransmitters most associated with guilt and remorse. That's what the guy told me on the phone. His spiel was short and vague, just how I wanted it.
I feel a little better after two hours, though I'm not sure if it's because I think I'm supposed to feel better. What do I care if it's all a placebo effect? As long as the pain's gone...
I wake up on the living room floor and it's nearly 7 in the evening. Scanning the house is depressing; I've been living in filth for the last week. Garbage and dirty clothes are strewn everywhere. There are plates of uneaten food. I don't even remember cooking or ordering out. I feel acute, very aware of my surroundings. I notice things I've been missing, like the calendar on the far wall that hasn't been flipped since April. I try to get up to turn it to September but I can't. I'm glued to the wall. My brother bought me that calendar...
The pain's back. It's so fucking bad I take another pill. There's a bottle of Dewar's on the coffee table and I drink the few ounces that are left to wash it down, gagging at the taste. I watch TV, an episode of King of the Hill but fall asleep during the first set of commercials.
My dreams aren't of her, thank God. I'm asleep for who knows how long. That's what they do, the pills...they knock you out so soundly that you don't have time to mull over the what-ifs. You can't remember your dreams when you wake up. I can't see her face, her reaction, the way she lost her balance and fell to the floor when I said what I said. That scene was playing over and over in my head all week; now I'm a baby, passed out like I had too much milk, blind, stupid, and gone. I don't even exist.
posted by dave at 12:30 PM
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