15?

They were out on the counter. When they weren’t on the counter they were in her grandmas drawer.

Second one from the bottom, under her socks and tank tops.

It started with one. She had seen her dad take them at the old house, and he seemed pretty fucking chill after.

So, with the lightest touch she opened the drawer, avoiding any noise that came from the clank of the handles.

Digging through grandmas personals, she found the orange bottle with the red label. Alex told her that the red labels are “the fun labels.”

Looking at her reflection in the same mirror her grandmother glances at before popping these pills, she looked at her big, brown eyes and thin lips. The freckles on her face recently kissed from the summer sun. Her hair whisping the side of her check as she stood below the air conditioner.

Her palms were sweaty. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She knew what she was getting into.

But the reflection was unfamiliar. She was only 15, didn’t see a life past 20. She looked at her reflection with confusion. With disgust. She had enough of feeling nothing.

On impulse, the reflection knocked back the pill, chased by some water. Her pupils enlarged.

Everyday after school, she would sneak up to her grandmothers room, quietly open the drawer, rummage through garments until she found the one thing that gave her blissful peace.

Sometimes, she would take one before soccer practice. Lying to herself that she still loved the sport. Medicating before made running and kicking and shoving all the better.

Weeks, months flew by. She had no recollection of the past months that shadowed over her.

In her bathroom mirror, she examined herself the same way she did when she first took the pill. Her big, brown eyes and faded freckles. Her brown hair complementing her rosy checks from the winters frost.

This time is the last time she thought. Throwing back the white pill chased with water, she focused on how her eyes dilate. How her mouth was too thin to kiss. How her cheeks were stubby with acne.

She layed in her bed, stomach churning. She knew what she had done. Now she waits.

Two winters later, she sat in her English class, eyes drawn to her pen and pencil. Sketches of faces and flowers filled the side of her notebook. Her English teacher walked in, frazzled. Her hair looked different today. Usually she has her hair in curls that bounce as she walks, but today she had it in a bun, looking as if her hair were suffocating being tightened by the elastic.

She put her bags down and greeted the class with an anxious smile. Her eyes dialated. Her mouth twitching. Strands of hair falling out with each stoke of her hand, passing through.

Suddenly, they caught eyes. Sober, the girl sitting in her desk notices a familiar look. A frazzled, fucked up English teacher opened her mouth and began teaching.

After class, she packed her things and glanced at her English teacher once more. She felt pity for her.

On the way home, she remembered what it felt like to take a painkiller. The blanket of comfort that fell over her with each passing minute. The tastefulness of music when high. The bitter comedown, the regret, the addiction.

She wanted to be a journalist. That’s why she chose to be in that particular teachers English class, because she was once a journalist, too.

At home, looking in her grandmothers mirror, remembering how years ago her reflection startled her. She did not open the drawer that hid the most toxic relationship she ever harbored. Instead, she went to her room and applied to college.