Sweat dripped from his forehead and chest as he crawled the toilet. Inch by inch, his hands pulled him closer across the white marble tile that had cost so much. With his last ounce of strength he hauled his head into the bowl and thrust two fingers down into his throat. A ruptured gag resulted, followed closely by a thick, yellow bile that reminded him of raw eggs.

Please, he thought, desperate to cling onto what energy remained, please come up. He shoved his fingers deeper into his throat, praying that the pills would show. He vomited again—a clear, viscous liquid. Please come up.

His strength wore thin as his head fell to the ground and rested on the cool, white tile. His eyelids felt heavy and, as his strength began to wane, he slowely gave in.

Visions of his mother danced through his mind. He had always loved her smile, he reminisced, and he wondered if she would be disappointed if she were alive.