Wiping the tears from her eyes, she turns, concealing them from her son. It stares at her, the poison, sitting in his hands, unassuming, simple, deadly. The poison that plagues their house, that weighs down their shoulders, that holds her happiness in the palms of its hands and crushes, ever so slowly. He discovered it between the couch cushions, stashed away from some forgotten night. The poison kills slowly but surely, leaving behind empty husks of once perfect people. Why does this poison sit in my house, she asks? Suspicions gnaw at her. Could it be? No. She refuses to consider it. But. It would make sense. Stop! she nearly shouts before realizing she’s not alone, that her son is still waiting for her, still holding the poison, watching her with inquisitive eyes. She snatches it away, hurriedly ridding the world of what remains. But it can never be enough. Not when the poison is a short trip away. Not when the poison requires such a small payment: $25 and your soul. Not when the poison convinces you it’s healing you, while robbing you of everything. Not when the poison becomes your life, when what you live for is one more sip, one more cup, one more bottle. Always more. Never enough but always too much.
She sees a car pull into the driveway. It’s his. She sees her husband walk in the front door. It’s him. She immediately sees it. She sees what she’d been missing for so many years, what caused his absence from so much, what had changed him from who she had once known, what had worried her sick.
The poison is his.
He’s already dead.