Nothing rattles.
Nothing.
I stare at the empty bottle in my hand. Turn it over. Check the bottom like maybe there's an explanation there. Like maybe this is a mistake. But there's nothing. Just blank orange plastic and the sticky residue where the label used to be.
Thirty pills. I just picked up my prescription three days ago. Three days. Seventy-two hours. I've taken exactly three pills, one each morning, same time, same routine. Thirty pills that are supposed to last me a month. Thirty pills that keep me—
Safe.
They're gone.
All of them. Every single one. Gone. Flushed. Destroyed. Taken from me.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me, raw and broken.
The word comes out strangled. Broken. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds small. Scared. Young.
I drop the bottle like it burned me —my fingers opening, releasing it like the plastic itself is toxic— and it bounces on the bed, rolling onto the floor. It lands with a hollow clatter that echoes too loud in the quiet room.
This isn't happening.
This can't be happening. This is a nightmare. This is a mistake. This is—
I tear open the bottom drawer of my dresser where I hid it. My hands are frantic now, pulling at the drawer so hard it nearly comes off the tracks, shirts flying as I dig through them. Maybe I moved it. Maybe I'm losing my mind and I actually put them somewhere else—Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I miscounted. Maybe—
No. Nothing. The drawer is empty except for clothes. Just clothes. No pills. No bottle. No salvation. No, they were here. Under the shirts. Buried deep where no one should have found them. Where they should have been safe. Right fucking here.
Someone took them.
Someone came into my room. Violated my space. Went through my things. Touched what's mine. Found my suppressants. Found my secret. Found the one thing I can't live without.
And flushed them. Destroyed them. Took them from me deliberately. Maliciously.
My chest tightens. Like someone's wrapped a band around my ribs and is pulling it tighter. Tighter. Until I can't expand my lungs. Until breathing becomes work.
Can't breathe.
Can't—The room tilts. The edges of my vision go dark. I grab the dresser to steady myself, my fingers digging into the wood hard enough to hurt.
I need to call Dr. Yao. My phone. Where's my phone? I need to call her now. Right now. She'll understand. She'll give me an emergency refill. She has to—She has to because if she doesn't, if she won't, if I can't get more—
No.
No, she won't. The realization hits me like a physical blow. Cold. Hard. Final.
She's told me a dozen times. More than a dozen. Every appointment. Every refill. The same warnings, the same protocols, the same rules I've heard so many times I could recite them in my sleep. Protocol. Safety. They can't just hand out suppressants like candy because people abuse them. Sell them on the street. Take too many. Use them for things they're not meant for. Sell them. She needs to see me. In person. In her office. Can't do it over the phone. Can't do it without an examination. Needs to verify. And even then, it's been three days since my last refill. Three days. Not even close to the thirty-day window. She'll know something's wrong. She'll ask questions. So many questions. She'll ask questions.
Why do you need more already, Max?
Where did they go?
Are you taking more than prescribed?
I can already hear her voice. Concerned. Suspicious. Disappointed.
I can't tell her someone stole them. Can't tell her I'm living with people who hate me enough to sabotage me. Can't tell her the truth because the truth sounds insane. Paranoid. Like something a drug addict would say to get more pills.
She won't believe me.
