"Untitled (Bob)"
Just take the pills already, before someone knocks on the door and asks what's wrong.
You stare at the row of colored tablets that lay on the bathroom counter before you,
trying to decide. They make capsules in hot pink now? Oh my, what this world is coming to.
They lay there beside that glass of water, waiting to be swallowed, one by one,
all eleven of them.
DO it already, before you wimp out.
My, how that voice can be annoying. Sometimes you imagine it's his voice, his because he has your face and eyes
and smile. Fine, so he has a different haircut. He might as well be you, after all.
He even has been you in the past.
You smile bitterly at your reflection, at him.
He'll be you once you're gone anyway.
So take the pills, wimp. They might kill you.
Anything will, now that you're so close to the edge.
Tears blur your eyes, but you slap them away angrily with the heels of your palms.
You glare at your reflection and scoop up the pills, stuffing them into your mouth and grabbing
the glass of water, parting your lips to let the liquid in and wash the bitter taste down.
You feel the tablets as they go, hard and dry, and they settle in your stomach in a big clump so
it feels like you've got something stuck just behind your breastbone, something that hurts and
just won't go away.
Your eyes begin to water again, not because you're crying, and the throbbing in your temples
sets in, sending the room into a spin.
You hate it all. You want it all to just go away, fall back so you can be free to just live
your life. It's the enemy within, clawing to get out and destroy you.
You suffer through it all, the stupid 'half egg' twin jokes from Dave (where does he get off
doing that? He's your fraternal triplet), the wailing of an electric guitar from behind Scott's
closed door, the throb of an electric bass from his room next door. You wade through it all, chin high and gaze never failing, and yet it eats at you always, pushing
you to the edge of life's precipice.
You stumble back but manage to catch yourself on the edge of the bathtub.
If you just close
your eyes, it'll all be over soon.
There's a knock at the door. It's him, Clint, the other who suffers through Dave's
half egg jokes.
"Bob, come on, it's time to go."
You lurch to your feet, one hand on the counter for balance.
Stupid experimental drugs. At
least Clint's stopped with the bass.
You pull open the door, and for a moment you're staring at your own face. In a while it'll
be the only version of your face that's left on the face of this earth.
Your version will be six feet under.
"C'mon, you know Sheila doesn't like to be late." Clint turns away.
And your face -
his face - is gone.
You walk after him, forcing yourself to act normal, like nothing's going on inside.
But it's
there, working patiently, and you know it'll win like a knife to your wrists will make you
bleed. It'll win in the end, it always does.
The low throb of bass begins to pound through the house again, and you grit your teeth.
You're going to kill yourself.
Come on, look death in the face, look Her in the face and laugh.
You're going to kill yourself because the cancer is inside you.
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©2004 Agent Duo