She turned over the bottle in her hand. White. Sterile. Left over from some forgotten medical event, it had occupied the shelf for as long as anyone could remember. As to what they were intended to do, she couldn’t recall, but she knew what they were capable of, if the remainder were to be taken all at once.
Pain. They would stop the pain. It seemed that was the only thing she felt those days, the only emotion, the only sensation. Her mother told her it was a phase, but that was easy to say from three thousand miles away on the other side of a phone where life was sunny, beautiful, and painless.
Still, she turned over that bottle in her hand. The kids would be home from school soon, taking the bus for the first year they were deemed old enough to look out for each other. They would be so proud of their accomplishment. They would want to tell their mother all about it.
Her husband would be home from work, or at least, he was supposed to be, but that never meant he would be, those days. Ever since she found out that there were no extra meetings, no “super-urgent deadlines”, she’d stopped carrying when he came home. It caused too much pain.
She could hear the bus pull over at the stop that was just down two buildings. Her children would be getting off. She set the bottle in her hand back on the counter and closed the door to the bathroom.
Maybe another day.