Effexor - A Short Short Story

I’m walking up West-Broadway, just got off the 51 headed east. I can see my grandparent’s house from the corner. Twenty feet from the doorway it starts to smell like Nana’s spaghetti sauce. Smells so good it makes me feel like I’m home, home in an aroma, one I haven’t smelled in too long for comfort. The door is unlocked, so I walk right in. Pappy is sitting at the kitchen table. He looks at me, beaming, as I walk up the stairs and there’s my Nana, next to the stove, busying herself with the sauce. My heart leaps and tears start running down my cheeks like open faucets.

“Nan? Qu’est-ce que tu fais-la?” I look at my grandfather, happier than I’ve seen him in months. “Pappy c’est quoi qui se passe?” He just smiles at me. I run to my grandmother’s side and take her arm. She looks at me, lovingly “Ma cocote jolie mais pourquoi tu est si ébranlée? Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” I fall to my knees and begin sobbing like an infant, all the while holding her as close to me as possible. She combs my hair with her fingers and makes shushing noises. “Mais t’es morte.” I say, more to myself than to anyone else.

My eyes fly open and I’m staring at the curtains of my room. I’m about to roll onto my back when I realize I am soaked to the bone, nightshirt and bed sheets as well. My face is wet too, been crying in my sleep again. I throw my hand up to my face, thumb and index pressing down on their respective eyelids. “Get a fucking grip.” My voice cracks on ‘grip’. We’re somewhere in February 2011. Your grandmother passed away on October 22nd, 2010 and no, she hasn’t come back from the dead. Periodically, I need to remind myself of the facts when the nightmares try to play tricks. Throwing the covers off my now cold and clammy body I get up and shuffle to the bathroom. The light over the medicine cabinet makes everything look orange. I run the bath. The bottle of Effexor catches my eye, next to my electric toothbrush. I grab it, pop the safety cap, pour them onto the counter and start smashing them with my fist clenching the now empty bottle. “You fucking life wrecking pieces of shit. I fucking hate you. I fucking hate Dr. Goldsmith, the dick.” Eyes now streaming again, I turn to the bath and stick my finger under the faucet. It’s hot enough, so I pull the shower knob and my wet nightclothes come off before I sit in the bathtub, letting the hot water hit me in the face. Going to have to pick up new pills at the drugstore after work tomorrow. Good thing Dr. Goldsmith gave me two repeats. Smart man, if I go under that’s one less patient producing bonuses for the greedy fuck. He always makes sure I’m covered. I’ll never get off, not at this rate anyway. I take the pills to rid me of the depression, but the side effects include vivid nightmares that make me want to off myself anyway – it’s the circle of life, my life as of now. I’d like to be able to get through one night without a change of clothes and sheets. Now I’m thinking of spending the rest of the night in the tub with the showerhead shooting at me, it’s wet, but at least it’s warm wet. I didn’t put the plug in so there’s no danger of me drowning. Sometimes I feel like there’s more of a chance I drown in bed, in my own sweat then in the tub. “Fucking Effexor” I mumble.

Don't remember where I found this photo - had it for too long.