The Pills

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This is a poem sort-of short story thing I made. It was originally based off of a song called Cough Syrop, which I put my own spin on. It’s about a boy who, after suffering from abuse from his father, has given up.

Poetry / Other
5.0 2 reviews
Age Rating:

The Pills

I want to escape this world; I want to escape my dad; who can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. I don’t want to have to worry about people watching my every move. I don’t want to live anymore. I want to do what I want; life’s too short, right? I don’t want to care about what others think about me and my family.

I feel like I’m losing my mind, is the reason I’m doing this because I’ve lost my mind?

I hate feeling alone. God, I feel so alone.

I slip into the tub, leaving my clothes on and reach for the bottle of Pentobarbital and lean back on the wall of the tub. I unscrew the cap and take all the pills but three in the bottle, almost poetically. I set it down on the side of the tub and slink slowly down into the water.

I can imagine them laughing at me and pointing their fingers at me when they hear the news of my death. I can imagine them finding enjoyment in my suffering. I can imagine what it would be like to be dead, is it like how I feel now? I can imagine the look of disappointment on my mother’s face. I can imagine how my dad would react when he finds me, sad to see that his play-thing had better things to do then to be used by him.

Why do I have to be his play-thing? Am I not my own person?

But I can also see a special corner in the world where people like me are remembered and never forgotten.

I peak my head out of the water, just barely below my eyes and I look around at all the dumb bathroom décor that dad kept for appearance’s sake. He never showed anyone his nasty side, aside from me and on occasion any businessmen scouring the neighborhoods for gullible rich families. I’d always think of being in this neighborhood as if I were always hiding a secret and I had to protect my heart; as if it were the center of my being.

I feel the weight of my eyes pushing down, making me sleepier every second and making the weight on my chest less and less. I feel the water around my jeans seeping into the fabric and around my shirt. I can feel where the kids at school punched me is healed, and with every tear I shed, I feel my brain dissolve by the minute. I feel that if I could find a way to help others realize this, I could help them and maybe even myself as well. I feel that I could save people like me, in that little corner of the world and help people who’ve gone through the same kind of abuse.

Could I?

I know I’ve waisted my life until now, but could I restore my life and make something of it? I guess I’ll never know.

I get out of the tub, waking my body up and allowing my chest to breath. I pace around the room and cry into the drenched hands.

“What have I done?” I cry until I can’t bare to cry anymore and I get up. I set myself back into the tub and take one of the pills left in the bottle. I take one of the last pills and sink back into the water. I don’t hold my breath or close my eyes. I breath out and hold myself under the water.

I realized I regret what I did, but I can’t reverse what has been done. I realized my dad was going to be home in an hour and I still did this.

What was I thinking?

I realized I hadn’t said my goodbyes to people who actually mattered to me and I regret it. I realized my mom never got to know me, and I wont ever get to know her.

I regret it.

I regret it.

I regret it.

I regret it.

I realized I hadn’t written a note. I realized I hadn’t cleaned my room or burned my diaries.

Why didn’t I kiss the boy I liked? Why didn’t I think this through more thoroughly? Why do I have to be so goddamn stupid? Why can’t I feel the water anymore? Why did the pills not work? Why do I have to die by drowning? Will anyone actually care when I die? Will my dad finally see me as me and not his play-thing? Am I worthy of being called my own person? Will I be able to help those kids like me in the next life? Will there be a next life? What was I thinking?

What was I thinking?

What was I thinking?

What was I thinking?

What was I-

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