A Pill For Every Ill

Jane hefted the bottle – 90-day supply, 90 doses. She rolled the bottle on its back – letting the pain pills clatter like soft rain.


She looked back at Mom, and she didn’t see the stains of various colors on the sheets, or smell the mixed odor of urine, feces and blood that the AC could never whisk away. She only saw the eyes – open, glassy, unfocused.

Janes’s other hand held the letter she got this morning. NGB Insurers. “We are reviewing records for claims re: Dale, Kate…if sufficient grounds exist, the policy may be rescinded in its entirety.” She inhaled, exhaled. Then what of little Bobby?

Jane put on a smile, opened the bottle, and counted out ten. She stared for a long moment – little white tokens. Pennies. She put them in the cup, then counted out another ten. She wasn’t sure, but it would be a long night. Never hurt to plan ahead. She put them in her shirt pocket, then picked up the cup and a small cup of water.

“Mom? I’m back. I brought candy.”

View this story's 11 comments.