Orange Pills

Trigger warning: Mental health

Day 344.

“Hey, wipe down table six.” 

Nigel says to me while making a gin and tonic. 

When I was hired as a barback, I didn't realize I would essentially be a busboy. 

You know, that guy that reluctantly takes your empty glasses, swirls towels on tables, and leaves them too wet for you to use, so you have to awkwardly wait with your date for it to dry.

I used to dream about working at a bar when I was a teen. The careless people, parties, music, the women, everything about it appealed to me. These days, nothing appeals to me. Between its weird retro chairs that are more suited to a 50’s diner and the green wallpaper, I almost don't know what's worse. Actually, I do. The customers and co-workers—people in gener-

“Yo.” Nigel snaps, pulling me out of my thoughts. “It takes 10 years to wipe down a table? Go cut some friggin’ lemons or something.”

While begrudgingly cutting lemons, Siera saunters through the swinging doors. The subtle bounce of her hair as it flows in beachy waves behind her is borderline majestic. She wasn't scheduled today, so I'm assuming she's here to pick up her check. 

“Hey, Roman.” She says in a friendly tone.

“Hey, S-Siera,” I stutter.

As she walks past me to the back office, the smell of her coconut body butter wafts through the air. She's so pretty she's almost tolerable, I think to myself as I look down, only to find a sea of vibrant red and yellow flowing on the white cutting board. Enamored by her beauty, I must have nicked myself with the blade.

Great. Will it be an infection from the bar counter? Tetanus from a rusty knife? Is my blood sugar too high, making it never heal? Sepsis? Will the infection turn into gangrene? Lost limbs? I immediately clean it in the sink and run the cold water over the cut. I'm transfixed as I watch my DNA kaleidoscope down the drain. Soap, water, alcohol, and a bandaid couldn't possibly be enough. I need to go home where it's clean. 

The double doors are in mid-swing as I trip over my own feet, frantically yelling to Nigel. 

“I have to go!”

Frigid, New York air and noisy, collaged voices hit my ears first as my feet rush across the street. Then car horns and lastly the hard skidding of tires as a silver honda civic stops just inches away from my beat-up Adidas sneakers. Two near-death experiences in one day, this can't be real life.

Luckily, home is only a few blocks away. “You can make it.” I assure myself. Frantically clapping my feet up the brownstone steps- fumbling for keys- the echos ricocheting off the beige hallway interior- APT 33D- blue door- fumbling for keys again. 

“You're okay. You're home now. You made it.” I declare between labored breaths.

“That doesn't mean you're safe.” 

“We are still injured.”

After thoroughly cleaning the wound, the walk to the living room wall is filled with foreboding. I carefully drew a tally mark alongside the rest.

344 days survived.

~

Day 372. 

Days off from work are usually spent at home, cleaning, listening to music, watching TV, or sleeping. Today, however, is Tuesday. Tuesday is laundry day, the most dreaded of days because it means I have to go outside. Walking down Main Street, blue laundry bag in tow, there’s a golden-haired, rather busy looking woman passing to my left, which reminds me —my sister called this morning. Of course, I didn't pick up. I mean, who calls at 8 am? She knows it's Tuesday. I swear I don't understand her sometimes. Either way, I make a mental note to call her when I get home.

Two grueling hours later, in the safety of my living room, I dial her number off the fridge. 

“H-hey Roman, give me one sec.” She says in between crumpling paper in the background. She's probably at work. 

“Hello?”

“Yep, I'm still here.”

“How are you? I called this morning, then realized it was Tuesday.” 

“I'm okay. At home, just got back from doing the laundry.”

“Oh, okay, that's good. Nigel called and said you've been a little... out of sorts. Just wanted to check in.”

“Is that so? Hmf.. I'm fine.” 

“Well, I'm happy to hear that. I'll be in town this weekend if you want to hang out a bit? Maybe grab a bite?”

“You don't have to come out here just because you're worried about me.”

“I'm not. It's a business trip. We’re opening a new branch on 7th ave.”

“Sounds exciting,” I say monotone.

“.....”

“... sure, let's grab a bite. It's been a while.”

“It has, that sounds great. I'll see you then. Look out for my phone call.”

“Alright Hazel, see you then. Bye”

“Bye.”

“She says it's a business trip.”

“Do you really think that's true?”

“Not really.”

“I wonder what Nigel said to her. ‘Out of sorts’ what's that supposed to mean?”

10 o’clock. 

Another tally mark written on the wall.

~

Day 376

There is nothing worse than waking up to the phone ringing on a Saturday morning at 8 am. 

“Hello?” I murmur into the pillow.

“Hey, I know it’s early, but I was thinking breakfast?” 

Does her morning cheerfulness know no bounds?

“.....”

“Cmon, get out of bed. I’ll be by to pick you up in an hour.” 

“Ok.”

As the call ends, I snake out of bed to the floor, dragging myself halfway to the door. The walk to the shower seems endless. 

“When was the last time we even ate breakfast?” 

“People do that?”

“Morning people do that.” 

“Oh… that explains why we haven’t seen an egg in over a year.” 

I chuckle to myself as the warm water rinses the tiredness away. 

I haven’t seen Hazel for some time. We talk on the phone now and then but she's never felt the need to visit. I wonder what Nigel said to her, I know Nigel reports back to her on how i'm doing, but to come all the way out here under the pretense of a “business trip”? I'm not buying it. Regardless, I'm looking forward to seeing her. Will she look different? Maybe highlights? She recently got married, I know that. Will he be with her? God, I hope not. 

I’m tying my shoes when the doorbell rings, “Be down in a sec!” I say into the intercom.

She greets me with a big hug that I’m never prepared for. 

“Hey! How are you? You look so grown!” 

“Haha.. so do you,” I reply awkwardly.

The walk to the car is short.

“It’s been what, 3 years? You’re out here on your own! Look at you. That building was nice.” 

“I guess I’m finally adulting… how are you?” I ask, anything to divert the subject from me.

She begins to tell me about her husband, their Italian wedding, and the ups and downs of marriage. From the sound of it, she couldn’t be happier. 

In her usual blazer, blouse, and jeans, at first glance, I’d say nothing had changed at all. The same smile, the same golden-brown eyes, and light brown hair. The longer I stare at her, though, the older she becomes.

When you’re kids, 11 years older doesn't seem like that much. But when those smile lines and fine wrinkles settle in, when the topics of discussion are mostly about marriage and kids, it becomes clear that she is, in fact, 34.

We’re soon seated in a small diner on the lower east side with oversized menus in our hands. The perky waitress takes our orders. Hazel asks for her usual breakfast platter, and I stick to eggs, pancakes, and coffee. 

“So, how’s work?” She asks, with what she thinks is a seemingly unnoticeable amount of seriousness.

“It’s okay.” I lie.

“Do you like it there?” 

“I don’t much like it anywhere, really.” 

“.. I could find you something else if you want? I mean, I can talk to Sarah. I’m sure there are plenty of other places you can work.” 

“I don’t really want to change my routine. This works for me, it’s local, so it’s less time outside.” 

“Less time outside?” She asks in her usual concerned tone.

“....” 

“Roman, are you feeling bad again?.. You can tell me.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t like being outside.” 

The waitress places our plates in front of us. You could feel the tension brewing in the air around us like coffee in a pot, anxiously waiting to be spilled out. 

This is why she’s here. To pour the coffee out. She thinks she can relieve me.  

“What will happen if you go outside?” 

“I’ll die. I can feel it.” I say nonchalantly, looking around the room for an escape.

“You’ll die?” 

“Yes. I can feel it; there’s danger everywhere. Even right now, in this diner, anything can happen. A car could come crashing through that glass at any moment. I could get food poisoning from this egg. Or worse, a disease from this spoon.” 

“....How long have you been feeling like this, Roman? You should have told someone…” she lectures, in a tired tone.

“A while…” I trail off, knowing it’s day 376 but choosing to leave that part out. 

“Are you writing tally marks by any chance?” 

“What?” My pulse quickens.

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. What do you mean?” 

“It's nothing, let's just eat.”

“No. Tell me, or I'm leaving.”

“Don't go, it's-its nothing, it's just when mom and dad adopted you, you used to scribble tally marks in your notebooks. You would say it was counting the days till something bad happened. Like, you know how factories count the days without injury? We used to think it was nothing, but over time mom had her own theories.” 

“.... like what?”

“That maybe you felt like bad things always happen. When things were good for too long, it made you nervous. Like you were always ready for the other shoe to drop, in constant fear that too much good meant something terrible was on the horizon. So you kept track to see how many happy days you could have.” 

“.....”

“Don't look at me like that; it was entirely understandable. You would stay at different foster homes for days or maybe weeks and then move again. I would have counted happy days too.” 

“Why don't I remember keeping track in notebooks, though?”

“Memory loss is common for people with your condition Roman, it's not out of the ordinary to want to forget these kinds of things; you were a kid. Some things are better forgotten, anyway.”

“It's just so strange because now that you mentioned it, little flashes are coming back. I remember I had a favorite notebook that had this blue binding.”

“And the little golden stars on the cover?”

“Yes! That one.” 

“I think dad still has it somewhere.”

My mind is fuzzy; the last few years felt like I had things under control, like I was better and didn't need help anymore. Could I have let myself regress this badly, again? 

“Hazel, am I sick again?” 

Her expression is that of a mom telling her daughter, they can't afford ice cream from the ice cream truck. Her saddened eyes betray her, and I can tell she blames herself.

“Oh Roman, don't say it like that; it breaks my heart that I haven't been around to help you.” 

“You can't fix everything, Hazel.. It's like since mom passed, you take on everything by yourself. None of this is your fault, it's mine. I should have sought help a long time ago. I'm the one who stopped taking the meds, I'm the one who thought I was fine. ”

After what felt like the breakfast from hell and the saddest car ride home, Hazel parks in front of my house. She gets out; I can only presume to give me another unsolicited, “Hazel Hug.”

“Roman.. I took the liberty of contacting Dr. Oakland before I arrived. I told him that you’re having another tough time, and he refilled your prescription. I can't force you to take them, but I hope that you do. I promise to be around more, okay? I love you.”

I can see the water begin to accumulate around her golden eyes. She doesn’t have to worry about me; I worry enough about myself for both of us. As she hands me the prescription for the familiar orange tablets, the only thing that comes to mind is:

Great. These again. 

“I'll try, okay? But only if you try not to worry about me, I'll be fine. Thanks for coming all the way out here. I love you too.” She gives me a hug and leaves. I'm left to ponder how this always happens to me as I reluctantly head over to the pharmacy.

After a quick shower, my reflection laughs at me. I wish I knew the joke. I've been through this enough times to know that when Hazel is concerned, it's because it's gotten bad. The orange pills; they mock me. I swallow one to shut them up. 

By ten o'clock it's time to write another tally.

With pencil in hand, the walk to the living room is tainted with dizziness. The effects of the medication already taking hold, that familiar tired feeling. 

The pencil drops to my feet. 

Is my brain, a twist of visions in my head? No, it's not possible. No. Grasping at the wall, I run my hands along the surface. Fumbling for nothingness as tears roll down my face. How?! I can't possibly have imagined it all. I couldn't have. With a swirl of color, the room spins around to meet me. 

The tallies are gone. 

They were never there. They never existed.

~

It's been three months since starting therapy and medication again. I feel okay, I'm functioning better at work, and I've made friends. It's a small world too. At my second week of group therapy, you’ll never guess who walked in... Siera. Apparently, she struggles with similar things. We've grown rather close at work, although she still hasn't been to my place. I was a little nervous to ask, but some friends from group are coming over to play games in a few, and Gabe told me Julie invited her.

The doorbell rings, and the anticipation is so overwhelming, I'm beginning to think I'm crushing hard. As everyone files in, Siera is the last to enter. 

“Oh hey Siera, I didn't know you were coming,” I lie.

“Hey Ro, hope you don't mind me crashing your little party.” 

“Of course not, I'm glad you came” I really am.

The trail of coconut-scented heaven she leaves behind as she walks by me into the living room is enough to drive anyone to unrequited love. I trail behind her and notice her fur coat and faded blue jeans—I swear she could make a potato sack look like Louis Vuitton. 

“Um, Ro?” 

“Yeah?”

“What's with all the tally marks?

“Huh?” 

“The ones on the wall.”