I lay broken on the floor, an empty mass of black swirling like a typhoon in my mind. I wait for death to come for me. Two years ago, I would have laughed at myself. Two years ago, I would've gotten off the floor and executed such morbid thoughts from my mind. Two years ago, I was happy, I was sober. I was not this. I was not even close to what I was slowly but surely becoming now.
I felt around from something strong, something solid, to grasp on to. I felt the counter surface. I held on for dear life as I staggered upward. I felt my head become light, and I almost fell back down. I could see broken glass and an open bottle of pills scattered on the linoleum. A rush of fright shocked through my body. I hurried to put buck the colored capsules and seal the container. I fell to the floor and caught myself, my hands hitting the floor. I gasped in shock and pain. I sat crosslegged and looked at the palm of my hand. Several small gashes were beginning to ooze blood on the soft fleshy part of my hand. I couldn't get up. I struggled, but I was in too much pain to move. I tried to get up once more, but I fell back. My head began beating with immense, irrevocable pain.
Then, it was dark.