Prompt: Amelia in her addict days but still living at home.
The Scream
Two pills were sleep. Four pills were better than sleep. Six pills were even better than that. It took fourteen pills for anyone to notice.
"You still taking the Percocet, Ma?"
"Not for months." She taps Mark affectionately with a bright yellow oven mitt. "I can hardly feel it now, except when it rains."
Behind Amelia's eyes it's brighter than the oven mitt. Inside her head it's always raining.
"Amy-"
But she's not Amy anymore.
"Amy, have you seen where-"
"I didn't do anything!" she snaps, rigid with anxiety. The kitchen pulses around her, too warm.
"I just wondered if you'd seen the red serving dish. The one from Grandma McCoy that we use for the stuffing - didn't you wash it last night?"
She shakes her head, sweating.
"I washed it." Her sister-in-law, cool voiced, always, fixing her with a curious stare. "I put it in the pantry. Was that wrong?"
"It's fine," her mother sighs, put-upon, as Addison heads into the pantry to retrieve it.
Amelia holds onto the doorframe, watches Addison shrink a bit under her mother's critical gaze. It's funny, really. Addison hasn't done anything wrong. Not even a little. She's a model daughter-in-law, helpful, friendly - she used to drive Amelia wherever she wanted to go, back when she wanted to go places. She doesn't cook, but she cleans. She knows her mother doesn't like her though. Not really.
And then there's Amy - no, Amelia. Her mother likes her. She doesn't know about the pilfered pills from the medicine cabinet, or the ones her friend gave her. Or the ones from the man who-
"Ma?" Mark descends the stairs, an amber bottle in his fist. "There's nothing left. They're all gone."
The room is silent. Addison looks at Amelia, who swallows hard. She looks at her like she knows her, but she doesn't know her. No one does, not really. They might have known Amy, but Amy's gone. She left her crouching beneath the jewelry case in her father's store, tiny and crumpled and gagged so she couldn't scream, even when the wall behind her spattered red. Even when she wanted to scream.
Maybe she should scream now.
So she does: she screams. Just once, long and loud and that's all they hear until Addison's mouth falls open with realization, she drops the red serving dish with a clatter and shattered red pieces fly all over the kitchen.
Then she screams again and again until Mark grabs her, holds her as tight as Derek held Amy in the store, until she can't hear her voice.
They never let her scream.
But later that night she finds Derek's prescription pad, copies his handwriting meticulously, pockets sheet after sheet of it. She drives to the pharmacy three towns over and they hand her a neatly stapled paper bag in exchange for her lies. Huddled in the jeep again she tips two capsules into her hands and leans her head back, opening her mouth wide as a scream until the pills slide down her throat.
It's better than being sad.