Flash Fiction: Slow Burn

The mind is a terrible old thing

The first pill went down smooth, the second ground against his molars, bitter and gritty. He swallowed hard, wishing for water, knowing that none was available. The water, along with the power had been shut off a week prior. He thought of drinking from the toilet, but the thought of even looking at what currently sat in the bowl almost brought the two pills back up.

With a shudder, he peered inside the brown plastic container, seeing two more pills remaining. His refill was at the pharmacy, but with no money to pay for it, the final two pills would need to last. The idea of cutting them up and rationing them popped into his head, but the last time he had tried that, the little white pills had crumbled to dust, like a tooth disintegrating under the blow from a hammer.

He knew there would be a grace period, a few days when the medication would still be flowing through his system, keeping the imbalance perfectly level. Soon enough, though, the scales would tilt and he would get dragged down under the weight of his own particular madness.

The memories of past episodes were buried deep, locked away in a safe that remained impenetrable for as long as the medicine did its thing. He forced himself to open the vault and peer inside, to remind himself of what would happen in the next few days if he couldn’t find some money.

Flashes of red flitted through his mind, visions of hacking and tearing, of blood spray and copper smells like pennies placed under a high heat until the point of bubbling, like the way his thoughts were boiling and roiling now, like how he could taste the blood dripping off his top lip and onto his tongue to add flavor to the hunk of meat already in his mouth as his victim squirmed across the floor trying to escape the madman that was him.

He shuddered, swallowed the final two pills, and smiled as he thought about his next meal. His belly grumbled and he gave it a rub. A few more days and the hunger would be sated.