Each morning she took two pills with her breakfast. Both were little capsules, the first one a nasty tan color and the second half white and half blue. They went down easy, followed by a glass of water before the bottles were placed back on the shelf for the next day.
One is for the anxiety, the other is for the depression. She takes them dutifully every day, for without them she is plagued with the kind of darkness that makes your blood run cold and the walls feel like they’re beginning to swallow you inside.
But with them, it is not much brighter. The words of her mother and the insults from her father follow her through the light, casting a shadow that trails behind her. The C- on her math test and the glares from her friends feed the darkness. Each step grows heavier as the shadow grows larger and stronger.
He climbs up onto her shoulders in order to reach the high expectations and the pressure that she stands under each day. They weigh him down, which weighs her down, which leaves her dragging her feet along the pavement while begging for the sweet relief that those stupid orange bottles swear they hold.
The shadow claims her in the night, pounding away at her walls, drawing whimpers and sobs from her lips. The pain is masked by the pleasure he brings her, which is masked by her relief when she wakes up alone the next morning, and then the guilt when she finds him awaiting her presence at the kitchen table.
Two pills, followed by a glass of water and the shadow each morning. Her begging and pleading for him to leave her shatters her resolve, and one cold morning she begins to cry. She throws herself at the world, asking them to please save her from this man, save her from the pain and the fear and the darkness that’s been plaguing her for so long.
One word. Two letters. He swallows her whole.
One glass of water. Two empty bottles. Three numbers bring four sirens.
One sound. One line.
Time of death: 06:04 AM

my innocence.
stolen away...
twelve years old and desperate for
the love of a boy,
too naïve to know
the difference between
love
and
lust.

my first kiss,
taken from me by a
man
who filled my throat with
drugs and
darkness,
his lips coaxing shivers of pleasure
out of my twelve year old body,
mistaking my whimpers of terror
as pleas
for more.

he took me upstairs,
for my legs no longer worked,
amputated by the drugs he filled me with,
my brain was numb
to his touch,
and it was over
before my mind had even begun
to process the
fear
and
vulnerability
that should have filled my body
in place of his
lust
and
desire.

it’s gone,
ripped
stolen
erased
from my mind and my body.
the drugs rid me of the memories
but left behind the ghost
of his touch
to come and play
in the night.