Side Effects May Include

This story contains themes of medication misuse, overdose, physical illness, mental distress, and emotional struggle. It may be triggering for readers sensitive to topics of health crises, addiction, or self-harm. Please take care of yourself while reading

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“Antibiotics, we’re wonderful pills… but don’t ever think we’ll cure all of your ills…”

Red doesn’t move.

His face, waxen in the glow, is turned toward the screen but unfocused—like he’s staring through it. The television jingle loops again. Second or third time now, maybe more.

The cushions cradle more than his body; they anchor him to something slower, heavier. Thought, maybe. Or regret.

The bottle of antibiotics rests on its side. A trail of pink-and-white capsules leads to his limp hand, the script label torn halfway off.

He hadn’t meant to take so many. Not really. He thought… maybe doubling it would help. But his stomach burns now. His chest, too. Like his lungs are being vacuum sealed.

The ground peels away from him—he’s standing now, the jingle still humming, footsteps slow and sluggish, his hand languid against his side.

Riley. He should call Riley.

“So don’t always think that we can make you better…”

The song grinds against every bone in his body—cheerful, mechanical, cruel. But he drags himself to the phone anyway, long strings of hair shifting in front of his face.

Every button he presses feels like it takes something from him. His vision swims—a kaleidoscope of neons and flickers pressing against the backs of his eyes, pulsing like fractures in glass.

The dial tone rings once, twice—

The voice on the TV drones on:

“Take us for the wrong things— dangerous to do… when you really need us we can stop—”

The line cuts. Red remembers the rest, faintly, but his mind has become a collage of static.

Just as he thinks no one will answer, a click.

“Red? Hello?”

He opens his mouth to speak—only to cough violently, hacking and doubling over.

He spits into his hand.

He recognizes the shape in his palm, covered in mucus yet still distinct in its oblong form.

And his hands shake. The pill— discolored and slick with saliva— makes his skin feel like quicksand. He can feel the indent of the capsule, pronounced against the interior of his palm.

His breath speeds up, caving his ribs in, crushing his throat, making it harder to think, to speak. The world is spinning and tilting, pulsing with heat and noise and movement—

“Red? Red? Speak! Say something!”

Riley’s voice crackles through, raspy with sleep but piercing through the fog.

He tries again. His mouth opens. Another cough overtakes him, this one harsher—violent. Something inside him folds inward with the effort.

The acrid, burning feeling of bile rides up his rapidly constricting throat, his nails dig so deeply into the capsule shielded in his palm that the membrane snaps, leaking oily fluid onto his flesh.

“I—I—”

Colors flash, fractured and dull and bright all at once, swirling into shapes and patterns that drown out the familiar darkness of his home.

“Red, sit down! You’re scaring me—”

The phone shakes in his hand, so violently that it might crack by just existing in his very grip.

His body slides down against the wall, growing languid and loose with every passing word, the pill is still clenched in his hand, oil dampening his skin.

“Stay with me. Stay on the line, I’m driving over!”

Muffled shuffling. Keys jangling. A frantic whisper.

“I told him—God, I told him—Call me when you start! And what does he do—what does he do—?”

The television drowns them out.

“So please don’t end up paying the price—”

Red looks down at his fist. The words echo in his ears.

He hurls the shattered capsule at the farthest wall, oil and all.

And as his body sags further, the last of the adrenaline leaking out of him, he finally finds the strength to speak.

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry—”

His grip on the phone slips. It clatters to the floor. A distant sound. Fainter still is the slam of the front door.

“—Always take… a professional’s… advice.”

“Red, Red! Stay awake!”

He fades in and out, consciousness flickering like faulty neon. The colors on the screen dye the quilt beneath him, their patterns staining his cheek.

The jingle starts again.

He’s almost sure it shouldn’t.

No ad should loop like that.

Not this long.

Unless… he’d done it himself.

The thought breaks apart under the pressure in his skull—sharp, searing, splitting everything in half.

“Antibiotics, we’re wonderful pills… but don’t ever think we’ll cure all of your ills…”

He’s not sure how long he fades in and out. Sweat beads at his hairline every time he comes to, his limbs feel numb and laden with an unbearable pressure.

There’s warmth—Riley’s voice, maybe, or someone else’s. Then the clatter of feet. Lights flickering on. Sharp instructions.

A metallic scent fills the air.

Hands press into his arms, warm and slick with sweat. Someone’s saying his name.

A beam of light peeks into his eyes. Something cold wraps around his wrist. The crunch of plastic. A mask, maybe, maybe not.

Red breathes.

Or tries.

It’s hard to tell whether he’s rising or sinking, or suspended in nothing entirely.

He thinks he hears Riley—angry, scared, shouting over someone—but their words are muffled, like they’re underwater, or on the other side of the glass.

Everything begins to split—fracture at the edges.

A needle. Something bitter on his tongue. The faint sting of pressure.

“…wonderful pills…”

Wait. No. The TV. The dreaded, grating sound of the TV. It’s still on.

Even now, even with the responders here, it’s still singing.

And no one’s stopping it.

A cartoon voice, too bright, too sweet:

“…don’t ever think we’ll cure all of your ills…”

Then silence.

Almost.

The sirens fade into distance, or perhaps approach—it’s impossible to tell.

Red’s eyes flutter once, open or closed he couldn’t tell.

Then nothing