My head felt like it was being pressed. The pain was a plain, constant pulse behind my eyes. Another day. Another mild ache. The only thing that fixed it was the little blue pill. I hated taking them. I really did. But the way I felt without them was worse. It was like living in a heavy, gray fog.
Everything was blurry and slow. The pills pulled me out of the fog. They made colors bright and sounds sharp.
Dr. Evans had warned me. I sat in his quiet office last week, the smell of old books and lemon cleaner in the air.
"Sam," he said, leaning forward. His voice was calm, too calm. "These pills are a tool. They're a temporary support. They help you walk after the fall. But you have to learn to walk on your own again. You understand?"
I just nodded, looking at the floor. I didn't tell him that the 'fall', the accident, losing my family, felt like it was yesterday, not two years ago. The pills made it feel farther away. That's all I cared about.
"I hate feeling like a ghost in my own life, Doc," I whispered.
"I know," he said softly. "But this… this isn't living, Sam. This is just masking."
Now, in my silent kitchen, I opened the white bottle. The label had my name on it: Sam Grimshaw. It clinked. I tipped it into my palm.
One left.
Just one little blue pill.
"Damn it," I breathed to the empty room. I'd have to call Dr. Evans tomorrow. Ask for more. I hated that call. I could already hear his voice, full of that careful concern. He looked at me like I was a vase with a crack in it, about to spill everything.
I swallowed the pill with a gulp of tap water. It was bitter. It always was.
Almost right away, the heavy feeling in my chest started to lift. The gray fog in my mind began to clear. The kitchen light, which was usually too harsh, looked warm and bright. The ache in my head faded, replaced by a light, floaty feeling.
But tonight… tonight was different.
It wasn't just feeling okay. It was a rush of pure, clean good. A smile spread across my face. A real one. Not the tight, fake smile I used for the grocery store clerk. This came from deep inside. I felt… great. Better than I had in years.
I looked at the messy kitchen. The dirty dishes, the stained stove. Normally, the thought of cleaning made me tired. But not tonight.
"Let's fix this place up," I said, and my own voice sounded cheerful. It surprised me.
I started scrubbing a pot. The sound of the sponge scraping off burnt food was… satisfying. I started to hum. A song my wife used to sing. A song I hadn't let myself think about.
I even danced a little, a slow spin on the linoleum floor. I caught my reflection in the dark window. My eyes were wide and bright. My smile was big. I looked like a different person. A happy person.
A cold worry started in my stomach. This is too much, a quiet voice in my head said. This isn't right.
I pushed the worry down. Why question feeling good? I finished the kitchen. It sparkled.
I walked into the living room. The quiet was too big. I needed noise. I clicked on the TV. A silly comedy show was on. People were laughing at a joke that wasn't funny.
Usually, that fake laughter grated on my nerves. But tonight, I chuckled. Then I laughed out loud. It felt amazing to laugh! The sound filled the empty room. But as I laughed, I listened to it. It sounded… strange. High. A little too loud. A little too long. Like it wasn't really me laughing.
I stopped.
The TV screen went to a black scene for a second. I saw my reflection. My smile was still there, plastered on my face. It was too wide. It showed too much of my teeth. My eyes had a shiny, wild look. I looked like a happy clown.
I tried to make my face relax. I tried to stop smiling. But my cheeks wouldn't listen. The smile was stuck. My heart began to beat faster, a hard drumming in my ears.
Something is wrong.
I needed to call Dr. Evans. Now. I staggered to the phone on the wall, my fingers clumsy.
As I started to punch in his number, I heard a voice. It was inside my own head, but it wasn't my thinking voice. This was clear, like someone was standing right next to me.
"What are you doing?" the voice asked. It was my voice, but sweet. Too sweet. Like syrup.
I froze, the phone receiver in my hand. "Who…?"
"It's just us," the voice spoke brightly. "Don't call him. He'll take the good feeling away. Don't you like feeling happy?"
"Get out of my head," I whispered.
"But it's our head now," the voice laughed. It was a horrible, happy sound. "And we feel so good."
I slammed the phone back into its cradle. Panic was a live wire in my chest. I had to see my face. I had to prove I was still me.
I ran to the bathroom and turned on the light.
The person in the mirror was a stranger.
The smile was a cut across the lower half of my face. It didn't reach my eyes. My eyes were wide with terror, but the skin around them was crinkled with this fake joy. It was a mask of happiness over a face full of fear.
"See?" said the voice in my head. "We look wonderful."
"No!" I shouted at the reflection. My reflection's mouth moved, but the smile didn't fade. I raised my hands and grabbed my own cheeks, trying to physically pull the expression off. My fingers dug into my skin. It hurt, but the smile stayed.
"You can't fight it," the voice whispered, soothing and terrible. "The pill is working. It's fixing the broken parts. The sad parts. Soon, they'll all be gone. Just happy thoughts. Just happy feelings. Forever."
The room felt like it was tilting. The laughter from the TV in the living room slipped under the door. It mixed with the voice in my head, and with my own ragged breathing. I was going crazy. The pill was making me crazy.
I needed to get it out of me. I needed to be sick.
I rushed for the sink and turned on the cold water. I cupped my hands under the stream and splashed my face, again and again. The water was icy. It shocked my skin.
"Stop that," the voice whined. "You're ruining the mood."
I kept splashing. I needed to wake up. I needed to wash this fake feeling away. I grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed at my mouth, my cheeks, trying to scrub the smile off.
I looked up, water dripping from my chin.
The face in the mirror was still smiling its horrible smile. And now, from my nose, a thin stream of red ran down. Blood. I must have scratched myself. The blood mixed with the water on my lips, turning pink.
But I didn't feel a cut. I watched, frozen, as the blood flowed faster. It wasn't coming from my nose. It was bleeding from the corners of my smiling mouth, running in two red lines down my chin and dripping into the white porcelain sink.
Plink. Plink.
The blood was dark against the white. My smile, now painted red, looked like a beastly grin.
"Even better," the voice sighed with pleasure. "Now we're really feeling something, aren't we?"
This wasn't me. The pill wasn't fixing me. It was burying me. It was building a new person on top of my bones, a happy, smiling, hollow person.
I was trapped inside this body, screaming where no one could hear me, while this thing smiled with my face.
The worst thought came then, crawling up from the dark. It was the most terrifying thought of all.
A small part of me, deep down where the grief was a bottomless black hole… that part watched the blood drip and listened to the happy voice, and it was tired. So tired of hurting. That part looked at the smiling face in the mirror and thought: Maybe being happy, even like this, is better than the pain.
The voice in my head heard that thought. It gave a soft, victorious laugh.
"Yes," it purred. "That's it. Just let go."
I stared at the bloody, smiling stranger in the glass. My hand, moving without my permission, reached out and touched the reflection.
The smile in the mirror got wider.
The little blue pill had won.