8
Abby stared at the bottle of orange pills the doctor had prescribed. She could hear Mary-Margaret saying something to Rachel in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes. Noises carried in this small house, through the paper-thin walls. She stared in the mirror at the image staring back at her: pale skin, glossy blue eyes etched with lines. She had felt off from taking the pills the doctor had given her, but it had been no worse than the deep feeling of despair she couldn’t shake.
She loathed herself. She wished for some good feeling to return, something to love. She said it over and over in her head—I love my children, I love my husband—but she couldn’t love herself, and she didn’t want some pill, some chemical, adding to her confusion, so she lifted the toilet lid and dropped the next pill
