Call it cowardly but I didn't care.  The medication just sat there, obviously doing nothiing but nothing except for the stomach cramps.

Taking medicine for pain I discovered meant to take it if you wanted further pain.

She had left, I don't blame her, the pros had outweighed the cons.  Ironically, the drunken backflip that had destroyed my leg on that concrete form had initially been to impress her.   What she had got instead was a frantic, terrifying ride in an ambulance with me.  My blood was on her hands.

And then the depression, the muting, need for sleep that shut her out of my life because I couldn't deal with one leg, let alone the crimson guilt I had sprayed on her.  No job, no girl, no leg.

"Try to cheer up", she had said.  And then started talking about paralympics.  The Special Olympics.  I snapped at her. 

"Next time you have one leg, can I give you advice?"

And she was gone.  And all I had to stare at was the bottle of pills that only caused me further pain.  It was 2:00.  I had been alone all day, immobile, immobilized, immune.

I took 4.  Then 3 more.  Then said f*ck it, and dumped the whole pile down my throat with the flat soda on my nightstand.  Not even out of spite or wishing that people would miss me, when it gets to that point, it's sheer carelessness.  And I didn't care.  And I'm waiting to sleep.

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Killers. Why not write a murder from the murderers point of view?

updated May 15 '09 by seldom