She had a bottle of happy pills. She'd carry it wherever she'd go. She'd forget her wallet, her keys, and, a few times, her bra, but never her secret bottle.
It was her big, easy to open, unbreakable container of joy. Those drugs were fast acting and addictive. She took as many as she wanted, when she wanted, because they made her feel good. Her precious bottle never emptied, her dealer saw to that.
They filled her heart to bursting. They'd kept her moving on those days that she wanted to curl up and cry. Some helped her vent her anger. Others filled the emptiness that crept in from the corners. They helped her feel alive. The helped her feel useful. The wanted ones were useful.
They were her all. Laughter was her only medicine. Her rage, that fire, gave her power when she needed. No room for emptiness with a world of ideas. Dancing moved her blood. Doing gave her purpose. Made her wanted.
She couldn't bear to be without. Never again. Each pill was her supply of instant better.
My Recent Freewrites
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