Pillbox Requiem

Pink for pain and white for sadness. Blue circles to sleep and orange gels to wake up. Translucent pink pearls rattling captive for my digestion. This one, half-red, half-yellow, split like me, right down the middle, both halves screaming Stop! Caution!

The thick white pill is hard to swallow. Its edges are rough, they groove spongy valleys in my throat, raked raw by the sharp talons of things unsaid. That one, the big white one, is for my heart.

What’s wrong with my heart? I ask the doctor, but he just shakes his head slowly.

Sundays are a day of faith. A weekly ritual will keep you grounded, my psychiatrist says. The bottles lined up, glowing orange like stained glass under the kitchen bulb. I peel back labels and unravel their sacred texts.

Caps off, each day of the week waiting like an open mouth. The pills clicking like Rosary beads, hopeful. With every tap of a capsule hitting plastic, I pray. I pray to God, I pray to Our Mother of Pharmaceuticals.

Fix me.

Nora Studholme was born and raised in the countryside of Virginia, where she grew her roots wandering forests and finding animal friends, always with a book in hand. Her greatest delight comes from being a writer of short stories, essays, and novels. Mostly, she thinks of herself as a treasure hunter, traveling through life seeking those glimmers of story that hide everywhere.