A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-12
The Bottle is Empty
Yesterday. Found the pill bottle empty. Shook it; nothing rattled. Unscrewed the cap, tipped it upside down. Nothing. Fingertip inside; touched bare plastic bottom. Empty. Stared at the translucent orange bottle for a long moment. Gripped it; plastic crunched in my fist. Needed disposal. Couldn't bin it at home; Marta checks trash. Slid the bottle into my left jacket pocket; a noticeable bulge. Walked to the big green bin on the corner. Pulled out the bottle. Glanced around. Released it. Heard the muffled thud as it landed amongst other rubbish. Walked home. Pocket lighter. Something inside heavier.
Need a New Prescription
Staring at the clinic number on my phone screen for a minute. Press call. "Doctor's clinic, this is Annie." Familiar voice. "Hi, Sarah Johnson. Need a refill for Zopiclone." "Hold please… Johnson… Yes, found you. Last prescription was four months ago?" Keyboard taps audible down the line.
"Approximately. Sleep's been bad." "Hmm, I see. But the doctor requires an appointment for refills beyond three months. Can't do it over the phone." Tightened my grip on the phone. "Must be in person?" "Policy. Concerns about dependence." Flat, factual tone. "Tuesday next week, 2 PM available." "Nothing sooner? This week… is difficult." "Sorry, doctor booked solid. Thursday morning, ten o'clock cancellation? That's two days from now." "Take Tuesday." Could barely wait until this afternoon, but useless to say. "Okay." After hanging up, place the phone on the table. Stomach tenses. I know what it means: the next hours spent fixated, counting days until Tuesday.
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Yesterday. Found the pill bottle empty. Shook it; nothing rattled. Unscrewed the cap, tipped it upside down. Nothing. Fingertip inside; touched bare plastic bottom. Empty. Stared at the translucent orange bottle for a long moment. Gripped it; plastic crunched in my fist. Needed disposal. Couldn't bin it at home; Marta checks trash. Slid the bottle into my left jacket pocket; a noticeable bulge. Walked to the big green bin on the corner. Pulled out the bottle. Glanced around. Released it. Heard the muffled thud as it landed amongst other rubbish. Walked home. Pocket lighter. Something inside heavier.
Need a New Prescription
Staring at the clinic number on my phone screen for a minute. Press call. "Doctor's clinic, this is Annie." Familiar voice. "Hi, Sarah Johnson. Need a refill for Zopiclone." "Hold please… Johnson… Yes, found you. Last prescription was four months ago?" Keyboard taps audible down the line.
"Approximately. Sleep's been bad." "Hmm, I see. But the doctor requires an appointment for refills beyond three months. Can't do it over the phone." Tightened my grip on the phone. "Must be in person?" "Policy. Concerns about dependence." Flat, factual tone. "Tuesday next week, 2 PM available." "Nothing sooner? This week… is difficult." "Sorry, doctor booked solid. Thursday morning, ten o'clock cancellation? That's two days from now." "Take Tuesday." Could barely wait until this afternoon, but useless to say. "Okay." After hanging up, place the phone on the table. Stomach tenses. I know what it means: the next hours spent fixated, counting days until Tuesday.
NEXT >>