Vignette: The White and Blue Box

Echoes of a Shattered Soul.

“There's a half-smoked cigarette on the table, still burning.” Imagined with Midjourney

I'm crying in my room looking at the bookshelf but not really seeing it, with my eyes lost and my thoughts lost in what could have been and wasn't.

My gaze is fixed on Stephen King's "IT", its blood-red spine mocking me from the shelf.

Sitting in a chair, I feel an exhausting heat, the sweat mixes with the tears falling down my cheeks.

There's a half-smoked cigarette on the table, still burning.

I haven't showered in three days and I can't remember the last time I ate.

The table is covered with handwritten notes, there's a half-used Bic pen, its cap chewed, a silent witness to my anxiety. The computer emits a buzz, the computer fan is at its limit.

I've been trying to write a letter for hours. A letter that would allow me to convince, but I know perfectly well that it's not going to happen. There are no open channels for dialogue. There's no possibility of reunion. There isn't the slightest chance that what I feel will be reciprocated.

A memory crosses my mind, sharp as a knife. I sob. Fortunately, there's no one at home. The cigarette goes out, emitting a final colored ember.

I get up, turn on the CD player and put on Jagged Little Pill, "You Learn" - on loop.

I cry again.

I go to the bathroom, I take a shower while Jagged Little Pill plays in the background.

"You live, you learn

You love, you learn,

You cry, you learn

You lose, you learn

You bleed, you learn

You scream, you learn…"

I look in the mirror and don't recognize the face looking back at me from the other side. It's tired, has dark circles under the eyes and a melancholy in the iris that I haven't seen in some time. That other me looks at me and suddenly smiles with a hysterical and disconsolate grimace.

The music filters through the door, a distant echo of my inner torment.

I approach the cabinet where the medicines are, throw a couple of empty boxes on the floor, irritated "Why the fuck are they here?"

I keep searching in the cabinet and finally find what I'm looking for. The white and blue box.

I leave the box on the sink, I look in the mirror and that other one is still there, with his gloomy and psychotic grimace. I lower my gaze and take the razor to shave.

I try to put on shaving cream but the can is empty, I throw it violently and it bounces on the floor and falls into the bathtub.

I take the hand soap, wet it and rub my face with the soap, I take the razor and start shaving while looking at the other in the mirror, who laughs without emotion, I yell "What the hell do you want? what the fuck are you laughing at?"

I cut myself with the razor just below the Adam's apple.

The cut isn't deep, blood flows and I let it fall, forming an abstract pattern on the white porcelain, while the other keeps smiling.

The rhythm of the music merges with my heartbeats, a symphony of despair.

I finish shaving, stop the blood flow and return to the kitchen. Old, dirty and dark, lifeless and plagued with memories. I take a glass of water and open the white and blue box. The pills are blue, and round. I take one, two, three, four, five, six...

Each pill is a silent promise, a ticket to a place where pain cannot reach me.

I put the pills in my mouth, I bite them with rage, they have a bitter, dry taste that causes me to gag, I take the glass of water and drink.

I return to my room, change the CD for Michael Jackson's "Dangerous", and leave "Why you wanna trip on me" on loop.

I sit in the chair and start writing again.

"You don't understand what I've been or what I'll be,

You don't value what I've given you or what I'll give you,

There's nothing to do,

I'm not going to convince you

There's no life in crying, nor sky in your absence…"

Michael sings in the background

"You always knew just how to make me cry

And never did I ask you questions why

It seems you get your kicks from hurting me…"

I'm dizzy, I start crying weakly while the pen falls from my hand and the table wobbles with the weight of my body as my breathing accelerates. I'm having a panic attack but I don't know what that means.

I grab the phone, dial the emergency number.

"Emergency, how can I help you?" asks a monotonous and bored voice.

"You can't," I answer

"Excuse me?"

"Street XXX number XX, come quickly…"

The other laughs joylessly with his languid and psychotic grimace, a grotesque mirror of my own despair.

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