The impact jolts through me. Pain, but distant. Like it's happening to someone else. Like I'm watching this happen from above. Like I've already left my body and this is just the afterimage.
Fuck.
Behind me, a chair scrapes. Sharp. Sudden.
"Max?" Atlas's voice. Closer now.
"Don't touch me," I manage.
The words slur. Just slightly. My tongue is too thick. My mouth won't form the shapes right.
I push myself up. My arms shake with the effort. Everything shakes.
I stumble forward. Into the kitchen. The tile is colder than the hardwood. Smoother. My feet slip slightly.
The counter is right there. I grab the edge. Hold on.
The pill bottle sits where I saw it the other morning. Right in front of the coffee maker.
White plastic. Red cap.
Safety.
Salvation.
I reach for it.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip it. The bottle trembles in my palm.
I unscrew the cap. It takes three tries.
Two pills tumble out. They rattle onto the counter.
I try to pick them up.
My fingers won't cooperate. They're numb. Clumsy. Like they belong to someone else. Like I'm wearing gloves made of cotton and trying to thread a needle.
I lift them to my mouth—
My legs give out.
Not slowly. Not a gradual weakening.
Just—gone. Like someone cut the strings. Like gravity remembered I exist and decided to collect.
One second I'm standing. The next I'm falling.
I hit the tile.
Hard.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs. My shoulder cracks against the floor. My hip. My ribs. Everything at once. The pills scatter. I hear them skitter across the floor—tiny sounds, too loud in the sudden silence.
My cheek is pressed against the cold tile. It feels good against my burning skin.
Maybe I'll just stay here.
Maybe this is where I belong. On the ground. In the dirt. Where people like me always end up.
