Another Ficly Short about an older character facing depression or insomnia.
He prescribes a higher dose, like it’s going help. A little chicken scratch on a slip of paper and I’m going to be all better. He drops the pad back into his perfect pristine white coat pocket and smiles, maybe genuinely, and slaps me on he shoulder.
“Cheer up! You’ll be fine soon. You’ve just gotta kick this.”
Why does that sound like a lie? Maybe I need more sleep. More real food. Doctor says I need a new benzodiazepine. I don’t know what the hell that is. One a night, as I’m laying in bed. Make sure to take all my other meds first, and use the bathroom beforehand. I need to be told these things. I’m eighty pounds overweight, hunched on the examining table, swimming out of my shirt and boxers. Maybe I’ll take three or four instead. Sometimes it feels like I’m just breathing someone else’s air.
I look over the prescription as I put on my pants. The doctor closes the door, and I collapse in the chair.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/15833
-Adam
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