Serene: clear and calm, unruffled, placid, tranquil, unperturbed. The words from the Oxford Dictionary ran through my mind as I tried to remember ever feeling this at peace. At last, I knew what to do; I had a plan of action. I could end the torment and I would be free.
I downed the last of the tablets having liberated them from the individual plastic and foil prison of their blister pack. Lining them up across the marble of the kitchen bench end to end, tracking a small deep copper colour vein and marvelling at the brilliance of nature. I abhorred straight lines. Straight lines depicted order - something long missing from my life.
Supping vodka from the bottle with an insane desire to make sure all the tablets were washed well into my stomach. Terrible stories of people who, unable to swallow tablets properly, ended up burning through their gullets haunted me, so I always made a point of washing down my medication properly. The fact my washer-downer in this instance happened to be neat vodka and the likelihood I would be alive long enough for any chemical reaction to happen in my gullet seemed of no concern. Habits were hard things to break, especially bad ones. I knew. I had plenty.
Downing the last of those pills - the ones the doctor gives you when you are a little stressed. You can't sleep at night. Worries of the world getting to you, mind refuses to stop racing, stress getting the better of you. My husband struggled with most of these symptoms, so the doctor, in his wisdom gave him pills. Wonderful, colourful little pills, to take his worries away. I happened to be my husband's biggest worry. Those pills would do their job - but not quite how the dear doctor had planned. That thought ran through my serene mind as I climbed the stairs to my sons' bedroom.
A belly full of pills and vodka and a head full of serenity.