Flash-fiction by fitfulfearfulphantasmal
How friggin lame is it that I brought two prescription pill bottles and a gun? she asked herself. Talk about overkill. She smirked; pun time was any time.
A perfect, dump-a-body pond was the predetermined spot, about an hour drive by backroads. Seated on its bank, ignoring the rotten egg smell, she dangled her legs in the water and laid the items between them. One. Two. Three. All lined up, an ever-ready death parade.
She’d already memorized where her parents kept their meds when she stole them a couple hours ago. Sometimes, she’d stared absently into the medicine cabinet after her long, Sunday night baths–the ones when she made little Ice Cream Mountains on her knees with the shaving cream, then nicked herself on purpose with the shaver and smeared little frowny faces with the blood.
First on the bank, was her mom’s depression meds–looking like they’d plopped out of…
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