In her hand, 12 pills gleamed under a Bugs Bunny lampshade - a youthful artefact from days long past - and the tablets seemed to give off a radiation, simply looking at the small pile gave her a rush of feeling, a feeling of power, the ultimate power, when you are the only one who is controlling yourself.
Sitting on a frayed old bedsheet, she toyed with the little discs, lining them up in a long row, making squares and circles, pretty patterns for an ugly person. With a pile of death lying before her, it seemed so much bigger than just swallowing them with a bottle of vodka. But she knew that no matter how big this was, no matter how small she felt, that this was what had to happen. The yelling, the tears, the loss and the hurt had all become a meaningless blur; crushing the light in her heart.
Her hand, without tremor, poured the vodka into a cold china mug, an aged brown crack teasing at the handle as she clutched at it. Not a tear bled from her eye, addiction to crying was a weakness she didn't need to indulge anymore. With one last look around, she set the needle on a ready-rotating record and swallowed her handful, her problems and herself.