Chalk Pills
Jessica Hall
First published in Salt Hill 42 (2019).
“Make sure to read the pamphlet inside the box, it’s a good one.” Malik the pharmacist sneers over his bifocals. I nod and look instead at the boxes of cough syrup that line the wall, elderberry, lemon, and strawberry. Malik pushes his glasses up with one hand and uses his other hand to push the red plastic crate towards me. I walk the floors a little bit; look at the everyday items, cotton buds, Band-Aids and half priced shampoo, no I don’t have a club card.
The pamphlet falls out of the box and onto my bedroom floor like a sad accordion, pleated white with small grey font. Lamictal Antiepileptic / Approved Mood Stabiliser. The pamphlet touts the usual benign side effects, dizziness, nausea, insomnia, and in equally insignificant type Steven Johnson Syndrome (fatal), seizure activity, and sudden death.
“So you went anyway?” Roommate Tom with only one foot in the bedroom, the other firmly in the safety of the common area.
“Yeah of course, said I would didn’t I?”
“Oh good, I’m sure it’ll help.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Tom pulls the door shut but leaves it open just a little.
It is with resentment that I start taking the chalk pills. A part of a deal of sorts to not get left out here alone, a yellow bargaining chip hard won in a late night argument.
At first I am almost embarrassed by my own reluctance, it is not that bad. The saturation goes down a few notches, I want to ask someone if this is how it always is, but there isn’t really any way to say it. I don’t really have much to say anymore, my thoughts are replaced by refrigerator buzz. I am calm. Most of all, it makes everyone else feel better. For once, I am doing the right thing, the very best thing I’m told. Friends tell me that they’re proud and lightly touch my back; hot and prickly skin on my face. I work two shifts a week with people that have been dealt far worse hands than I have. I stay home the rest of the time, place my face on the floor and repeat to myself that I want to go home, knowing that I am already home.
I walk around and my shoes have gum stuck to the soles. I choke on words because they don’t fit in the gaps in my mouth anymore, there is only enough space for some air. Skin on my face mottled and raw, it is not the life-threatening rash I was warned about, I pick at it just the same. I walk the same uneven gait to the appointments, try to time it so I don’t have to walk past the H33 bus full of passengers, barreling down Melbourne Street. Each week I am praised for my new way of existence. How obedient, such a good girl.
The manufacturers forgot to list it in the pamphlet but nothing really matters now. Driving back from work the car in front of me has stopped for the orange traffic light, I hadn’t noticed. No one is hurt, it doesn’t matter. I leave the scraped green car by the side of the road, I could have driven it home. The university sends me letters, emails tell me I have failed entire courses. The university sends more letters but I only open one of them up. I do not care that I once held potential. I sleep until three or four in the afternoon and stay up into the night, I watch the up-late shows, brash mouths and American humor, all jokes are for men. I don’t notice when Scott breaks up with me. I stay in the same place, a few weeks pass and he is too afraid to ask again. Each event as unremarkable as the last, each a line, its own tally; one, two, three, four, each eventual bundle. Strike. My friend is dead. I tell everyone I know. I want them to flinch and recoil for me because I don’t remember how to do it. I try to make the right faces in the mirror but they all look like fear. I tell people and make them feel uncomfortable for me.
“I’m not going to take it anymore.” Dr. Grove looks up briefly and then down again at the blank notepad perched on her knee. Dr. Grove is in her late seventies and tells me each appointment about her broken ankle and impending retirement, she tells it like a joke that I don’t get.
“Is that so.” It is not a question. The room is crowded with oak paneling, an entire shelf on the bookcase is dedicated to VHS tapes on codependency.
“If that’s what you think is best.” Dr. Grove makes a final stab at her notepad and slides a tapering off script across the desk.
“See you in a month. Take the next script, don’t call me.” I have never called.
I take the smaller pills. I carry the leaden bundles around with me. Twenty-six days is too many. I spend nights in lukewarm bathtubs armed with a boxcutter like a misguided scientist. When the medication is fully removed, I am new again. I buy plane tickets and forget about ever booking them. I stop sleeping because I have too many things to do. I read a book about portals by John Stray and it is the most luminous text that I have ever read. I write sloppy poems in public spaces with permanent marker and call my few friends to tell them all that I have learned. I leave voicemails and beg them to talk to me, call me back, call me back please.
Dr. Grove will not look at me. Dr. Grove waves me off to the hospital in a small white car. I am clean and pink but they decide on a new chemical without asking me. Not the same one that weighted my shoes and made my tongue swell, but one that is much the same. I am caged and small. When I am quiet and obedient once more they let me go home, except it is not the same place that I left.
Jessica Hall is a library worker who lives in Adelaide, Australia. Her fiction has previously been published in Hum Zine.