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The Girl Next Pill

Updated on March 18, 2017

By Moody

The Girl Next Pill

"Find whom you love and let them kill you, would you engrave that on my stone?" I said to her as I unclenched another beer can and tossed it into the fire. Not really a good campfire talk but I wasn't much of a happy camper anyways. One thing I loved about her was her utter confidence that I wasn't even remotely broken, she would never attempt to fix me, even in my mid-night suicide talks. She would list me all the latest revolutionary self-harm methods, she's creative that way. Dark she undoubtedly was, yet I could taste her sweetness like Hershey's finest. They gave me these pills the day I graduated from Bethlem Asylum, said they'll make everything fine and dandy. 15 years I rotted away behind them pale walls. Severe schizophrenia, a mental illness they called it, I think of it as my mind's own special way of transcending my humble every-day momentous existence. On June 23, 1950, I popped one. That's when she first knocked on my door. Three gentle taps were the birth of what soon became the most surreal relationship of my life. I slowly opened, and there she stood. A finely sculpted nymph, caramel coated with hazel eyes, exotic pitch-black silk for hair, every strand wildly dangling before the other. I was standing before symmetrical perfection, yet every thing about her said chaos. She told me where she lived, "in the pill" she said. I didn't mind. Those pills, a cure for the love-lorn is what they are. I was highly vulnerable by then, 15 years in the sanitarium left me with an extreme thirst for companionship. An hour after our first encounter, I was madly, deeply in love. In fact I'm surprised it took me so long. I recognized her voice right away, that harmonic voice that sent me to Bethlem, the one inhabiting my head. She said one thing, I said another, next thing I knew I was truly lost in those hazel stars. She would flash me with that gleam in her eyes, and I was a goner. We used to curl up on the Brompton cemetery grass, make up all kinds of twisted stories about each and every soul lurking upon her tombstone. It was highly sadistic. I loved it. She always made sure every soul in her story had a faint hint of good inside, just enough to make them human, I guess she didn't go full-cynical as I did, not yet at least. The sex was bizarrely erotic. I could sense every breath, every tip of her hair gently brushing against my face, yet I couldn't feel them, I couldn't feel her. I engaged in physical intimacy with a hologram, a mirage. She would reflect my every move, I thrust right, she thrust left, I pulled she pushed, it was like a sensual dance with my alter-ego. I was instructed to take a pill a week. I gulped down the whole container in one week. Each day more pernicious than the next, on the seventh day I was fatally strung out. I was dying. She stood up, and wickedly danced around the campfire, "I could engrave it, but what if your spirit had a change of heart and haunted me from beyond your grave." I laughed, she kept on dancing, and slowly I fainted away as I watched the flames sway along with the girl next pill.

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