I swallowed.
Jagged pills, ripping my throat, washed down by a bottle of whisky, the good stuff, the stuff Naomi hides from mom.
All night, I lay on the kitchen floor, convulsing, my whole body torn in pain, and, outside, there was a brief moment when the moon was framed perfectly in my window. Tree branches strung along the its surface, for seconds at a time, swaying back and forth in the wind. I stared, like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
But I didn’t want to live.
And the moon left.
In the darkness, you were the only light left.
… Or is that too cliché to be true?
