Darkness

• Bronwen Jones, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2014

Darkness

I kept looking at the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Not long now, I thought. I looked around the room.

The dated wallpaper was peeling in the corner, exposing the grey wall underneath. As if the room wasn't already depressing enough. The floor was a strange shade of green. I kicked my sneaker against it, again and again, creating a squeaky rhythm which I found strangely comforting. The light
above me kept flickering, as if it just didn't care enough to do its only job. As if it had given up. A small half smile spread across my lips, which were chapped from the harsh winter wind.

Was it the idea that the light was just sick and tired that made me smile? Maybe it was the idea that the light was me. I, like the light, had started off young and bright, happy and shiny and not afraid of the dark.

But now I, like the light, was being overcome by darkness. I was still there, the
person I used to be occasionally shining through, but slowly, surely, dying. Not that I actually thought those thoughts. They were far to poetic for me. I looked at the clock
again. Tick tock, tick tock. My anxiety was growing with each passing second. I wiped my damp hands on my old, faithful jeans, and again glanced at the clock.

The door suddenly opened, disrupting the quiet room. I jumped up at the startling noise, causing my chair to screech back on the lino floor.

“Sorry about that, I just had to make sure I got the right dosage,” the young doctor smiled as he sat down opposite me. He thinks you're crazy, came a thought. Ask for his number, came another. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but all these thoughts were drowning out his quiet voice.

“I'm confident,” the doctor softly spoke, “that this dosage will work.” I could feel my face glowing red with the embarrassment of such a handsome man knowing so much about me. “It is extremely
important to take the correct amount at the correct time.” He tilted his head to the side, his bright brown eyes kindly looking at me. He was so considerate and understanding and I hated him for it.

He extended his toned arm out towards me.
“Thanks,” I clipped, reaching for my pills. He was still talking, but I could no longer hear what he was saying. I slowly turned the tube over in my hands, liking the sound the pills made as they knocked against the orange plastic. I already knew they wouldn't work. This was the fourth change in medication I'd had in less then eighteen months.

For once, all the voices in my head were unanimous in their commands.
“Don't take the pills!” they chorused. “Don't take the poison!”