Frayed

Depression and disease never mix. Maybe one caused the other, or vice versa--maybe they were in constant symbiosis, conspiring with each other to wreak as much havoc on her body as possible--it didn't matter. What mattered was the repeating cycle of valleys and bumps--never hills to reach the top of, that would be too good to be true. Just deep and dark, low and lightless.

As she sat on the edge of the bed, eight-year-old springs creaking and sagging under her overweight body, she thumbed the Rx bottle in between her fingers, rolling it around and examining its label as if it would help her decide. The third time in that many hours she had had these thoughts, of oxymorphone and dyhydrocodeine, to swallow down to swallow her life.

Her job, that was gone; her boyfriend too. Religion didn't do much anymore. Her mother hated her--but that was a lifelong thing--and her apartment was barely big enough to fit her and the roaches. Oh, and no money for the rent either.

As her hand went for the pen and the back of the envelope that held the taxes she couldn't pay, it brushed against the phone. And it rang.

She stopped. Swallowed. Thought.

And picked it up.

There was a catch of breath on the other end, as if surprised to find an answer. "Lisa . . . don't," it finally said.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Commentary: Thanks to Mask by the Moon for the opening line to get me started. I need to try IM writing prompts more often.