Page 4 of Kill Me

Every morning her alarms blare, and I’m given a pile of pills and watched until I’ve swallowed them all. Even when I was married, it was the same. She trained him impeccably to fulfil the task when she couldn’t. But in a time when mental health is prevalent across the world, and genetics are getting weaker each generation, it seems like we, as the younger generation, are expected to pick up the pieces of the shit show the older one has left behind. No apologies, no allowances, no understanding.

An alarm blares from my mother’s phone somewhere deep within the house.

“Quinn! Tablet time!”

This has been our routine for the last twenty-plus years. I can’t tell you a time I didn’t have some kind of medication to take at some point throughout the day. Yet, aside from relaxing me, they never seem to treat my symptoms. The voices are always there, as loud as ever. The pain sears my body like nothing can numb it. My nerves are on fire, constantly. Mum will tell me to work out more, go for a walk, stretch and lose some weight. I’ve tried it all; nothing helps.

“Coming!” I’ve tried on occasion to broach the subject of my medications, but she stops me every time. Maybe today is the day.

I walk into the kitchen, and she leans against the sink with the tablet box on the side and a glass of water next to it. Her foot tapping out of sheer annoyance. There are a total of nine tablets at this point. Nine in the morning, ten in the evening, and depending on my outbursts, sometimes throughout the day, too.

“Here you go.” She slides the meds across the counter towards me.

“Do you think it could be time for us to get an assessment? I’ve been on these for so long, and I don’t feel any different.”

“No, Quinn. You only had one a few months ago, remember?

“I don’t remember that. What did they say?” The memory blanks are so frustrating. Important things I should remember just seem to disappear into the abyss.

“They said the meds were doing what they should and to carry on as normal.”

“Oh. So this is it, forever? I’ll never get better?”

“No. You’ll always have to take medication to be able to function and live your life.”

“Can you at least tell me what they are? Maybe I can research an alternative?”

“You don’t need to stress yourself over all of that, Quinn. I’m in charge of those because you can’t be trusted not to hurt yourself.”

“But—”

“No, Quinn. It’s not up for discussion. And don’t you dare involve your father. Now, take the tablets.”

I pick up the container full of meds. They’re a mixture of colours and shapes, and for a moment I wonder if I could figure it out from that. But she always locks it away out of reach. I suppose that’s my own fault. It’s not like I don’t have form, but how can I build trust without the opportunity to?

I slug the meds like they’re an alcoholic shot and gulp down the water.

“Show me.”

“Really?” I deadpan.

“Open your mouth, Quinn.” She rolls her eyes as if I’m being audacious.

I open my mouth, tongue out, waiting for permission to close it. I feel deflated. Every time I think she may listen to reason, she proves I should no longer hope.

She locks the cupboard that houses the pill bottles and leaves the room. I let myself fall against the kitchen side as quiet sobs overtake me. I just want to feel normal again. I put my hand on the side to steady myself, and the knife she used to cut the bread for lunch clatters to the floor.

There’s a knife. There’s a knife.

Pick it up. PICK IT UP!

Stab yourself!

Slit those wrists and do the world a favour!

It’s like a ghost haunts me over my shoulder every hour of the day. I bend down to pick up the knife, perusing the blade as it glistens from the sunlight pouring through the windows. I stroke it across my wrists.

Make sure you do it in the right direction, straight down, not across. Maybe for once in your life you could be a success at something.