Zero Refills

 

            Across town there is a boy who sits in a room just like your own (at least I hope it’s like your own). A laptop is open on his unmade bed, flashing a classic screensaver. The multi-colored orb bounces around the screen, mutating in a never ending cycle.

            The boy sits at his desk, a dusty lamp the only light in the room. He’s writing something, much like I am now. It’s a story, but it’s a story that no one wants to tell. That’s why I’m telling it.

            The desk is cluttered with empty glasses and water bottles, candy wrappers lay crumpled next to a history book and a novel. Oryx and Crake. Oh, Jimmy, you were so funny. A scattering of pens and pencils litter the desk; some are stuck in the empty water bottles. The picture frame seems out of place on the desk of this typical teenager, but the pretty girl within the frame does not. A girlfriend? Maybe just a crush? I don’t know, do you? Maybe someone should have asked.

            The boy looks up from what he’s been writing; it’s about half a page, now. He’s good looking, with green eyes and blonde hair. It’s just been cut, he’s got important things to do. His green eyes gaze at the picture of the pretty girl for a moment. He reaches out, picks up the picture in its frame, stares, then lays the girl face down on his desk. Shame, she was such a pretty girl.

            The boy turns his attentions back to what he’s been writing. Let’s take a moment to observe the rest of his room, shall we? A bookshelf lines the wall a foot above his bed. Amongst the science fiction novels there are trophies; basketball, football, and I think I even see one or two for swimming. Talented kid, I’d want him as a son, wouldn’t you?

            A gym bag lays open in the center of the boy’s room. There’s a pair of basketball sneakers, a jersey, a pair of shorts and a sweater. The jersey says Raptors. Too bad they’re extinct.

            Let’s turn our attention back to the boy. He’s finished a whole page and is moving onto the back, much like I am. He’s wearing khakis and a green button-down shirt, no socks. Just thought you might like to know that. His mother tells him the shirt brings out his eyes. The boy really doesn’t care. Most teenagers don’t care about those things, like if their shirt brings out their eyes or if their underwear matches their socks. And if they do care about those things they need to get their priorities straight. If you have teenagers you can tell them I said that. There are more important things to worry about than color palettes. I bet you your kids will tell you you’re full of s**t.

            The boy sighs, drops his pen on the paper, and rubs his eyes. He looks tired. That’s understandable, the clock on the table beside his bed--the one next to the model of a candy-red ‘69 mustang--blares two a.m. He’s got school tomorrow but he probably won’t go. His parents won’t be home to make sure he gets a glass of milk and a piece of toast and peanut butter for breakfast. His parents are important people who have to go to work before the boy wakes up for school. Do they love him? Your guess is as good as mine. He’s got that fancy laptop. Do computers and videos games say “I love you”? Maybe. Depends on who you are, I guess.

            The boy’s picked up the picture frame again. He’s gripping it with both hands, elbows on the desk. He’s staring at the pretty girl. I think it’s his girlfriend. What do you think? Then again, what you think is irrelevant since this isn’t your story. It’s not mine either, though, but no one else wants to tell it.

            The boy’s written a full two pages now, just like I have. He’s placed the picture back where it belongs and the pretty girl is smiling up at him. He flips his piece of paper over, begins rereading. I’ll do that later as well, but I think this story needs to be a bit longer.

            There’s a bottle of prescription drugs sitting quietly amongst the loud candy wrappers. It’s an ugly yellow, like the prescription bottle I had last week that was full of cough medication. I forgot to mention the bottle was there, didn’t I? Sorry, sometimes I forget the little things. You do it too. Too bad, though, it’s usually the little things that matter.

            The boy’s name is on the bottle but I can only see the last name. Cole. That’s fitting, though, as it’s what all his buddies call him. Maybe he doesn’t like is first name. Maybe he does. Maybe someone should have asked. Too late for that though.

            I can see the prescription, though. Nortriptyline. I think that’s used to treat some form of depression. Sounds like something that came up in my Psychology 100 class. Yeah, pretty sure it’s an anti-depressant.

            Zero refills says that eerie black printing. So he’s getting better. Maybe. Do you know him? If you do maybe you should have asked if he was getting better, or if there was anything wrong. I don’t know him, I’m just telling his story.

            He’s finished reading over his story, now he’s picked up the bottle of pills. There are five left. He stares at them, much like he stared at the photo of the pretty girl. He pops the cover, dumps the pills into the palm of his hand. They’re capsules filled with very tiny pink and purple beads.  He places the empty bottle on his desk, it makes a hollow noise that seems to echo in the quiet room. I read the dosage: Take one pill daily. Do not chew or crush. Take with food. Sounds a lot like the prescription I had for that nasty cough. I followed the directions though.

            The boy’s finished with following directions.

            Down the hatch!  What a stupid saying. The boy tips his head back, dumps the pills into his mouth, swallows. I could never take pills without water. He lays his head onto the desk, on top of his story, and closes his eyes.

            His mom doesn’t find him until the next night, when he didn’t come down for supper. It was take out, he probably wouldn’t have liked it. She cried a lot, screamed for her husband, shook the dead body of her only son. Funny how you’ll ignore something until it’s not there to ignore anymore, and then you miss it.

            Across town, in a room that I hope isn’t like yours, there’s someone crying over the body of their dead child. I hope it isn’t you.

Reviews

[hhoosh]

Very interesting story. Love the fluency of mystery in regards to the boy's emotions. Suicide letter? Ex-Girlfriend? Dead girlfriend? Who knows!?
Great job. Only part that made me lose the flow was with, "I don't know, do you?" with the examination of the photo. Just threw me off, being asked a question. That's all though.

Terrific!

[Watson Trippy]

I like the way you merge yourself and Cole together putting in information about yourself then switching to what you think Cole is going through.Great descriptions as well.I don't like the way you start to describe the room, because it's as if the story stops.I don't know what to suggest but I guess try to make the transitions work.Maybe take out the part where it says, "Let's take a moment to observe the rest of his room, shall we?"Just a suggestion.Other than that this is a great story.Full of sadness from the start.Nicely done.