Thirteen Pills and a Pink Floyd Playlist

It was 2 in the afternoon. He woke up with an immense cramp in his stomach. He was lethargic. He’d been ever since the separation materialized. It broke him so badly that he lost his drive to get anything done.

The fact that he was between projects provided him with a lot of free time to think, overthink, and make everything worse. His thoughts still lingered around his days with her, the smell and sight of the newly furnished apartment, late-night movie sessions with Billy their one-year-old hyperactive furball of a Persian cat. It was their safe place, where they’d come home to each other. But all of that changed in a few months of occupying the place. He remembered how oblivious he had been to what she was going through. They were more flatmates living together than husband and wife.

“I’m done babysitting you, I don’t have the strength or will anymore. I tried a lot for you, for us but I can’t help anymore.” These were the exact words she had said. She had contemplated for over six months before finally finding the courage to tell him that she needed a break, a permanent one.

He heard it, he understood it, but he couldn’t come to terms with it even after a week, which upset her more. He was desperately waiting for her to take back what she said. He thought it was just her gut feeling, an impulsive reaction. He realized it wasn’t, and she wanted to go it alone. He moved out of their apartment and rented another near his workspace.

The cramp worsened, and he couldn’t stand straight. He walked to the balcony. He could smell the intense, pungent odor of the cigarette butts crammed into the ashtray. The smell of spicy food wafted through the air. The sewage treatment gave out a sickening odor. He felt like retching.

He couldn’t put a finger on the cause of the sudden cramp. But then it suddenly hit him. He was withdrawing. It was the withdrawal from Tramadol.

He’d been dependent on it for so long that he had lost track of time. It wasn’t a high, it wasn’t euphoria; it was just an escape route, a vacation from reality. Sometimes it felt like his savior, sometimes his doom. He knew he was throwing away everything he had. But, so intense was the dependence it made him ignore the fact that he was charting his downward spiral to a point of no return, and he was almost halfway there. It was just a matter of time before the show stopped. The show must go on (until it doesn’t).

He reached for the medicine box, grabbed a strip of tablets, and began pulling them out one by one. He counted 13. He gulped some water and downed the tablets. The smell and aftertaste of the Titanium Dioxide coating was nauseating, but he was only focused on the outcome due in another 30 minutes.

“Alexa, play Pink Floyd,” he said in a soft but firm voice. “Shuffling songs by Pink Floyd on Amazon Music,” Alexa responded. “Wot’s… Uh the Deal” started playing in the background — “Million miles from home you’re on your own..”

He pulled out a cigarette from the pack of 20, lit it, and dragged in a mouthful of smoke through his dry mouth, into his failing lungs. Coffee, Tramadol, and cigarettes – his escape from reality, his vice, his soon-to-be doom, his highway to hell.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​