The End, Maybe

We found her writhing on the kitchen floor.

I leaned over and peered down at her face. "Hey," I yelled. "What's going on?"

She laid there, silent for a moment, then lifted her head and muttered something unitelligible.

"Yeah," I said, looking around. "I see." 

By Bronx standards, the apartment was decent.  Light from an airshaft filtered through a dirty window onto green linoleum.  Not too many cockroaches, I thought, not too much trash either. 

Her sister was there, or maybe a cousin. Can't remember. "She swallowed the whole thing," she said, handing me an orange pill bottle. It was empty. The label read: 

"AMITRIPTYLINE 50mg. Take one a day. Pill Count: 30."

"Uh hu," I nodded, glancing at Jose. He nodded back.

Jose bent down to grab her knees; I put my arms around her chest. She flopped into the chair with a thump. 

Head dangling backwards, she snored. A moment later, she lifted her arms and flailed about, uttering gibberish. "Yo kid, that's is some zombie shit right there," Jose giggled. "Like Night of the Living Dead or some shit like that."

As her sister stood beside me, I laughed. "Alright dude, let's bounce."

As we wheeled her to the ambulance, her sister explained the story. The woman was in her late-40's and her son had just moved out of the house. She was very distraught, he sister said, but she'd never tried suicide before.

First time for everything, I thought.

Inside the bus, she started to thrash and twist. We bound her hands and feet. Digging my knee into her upper arm, I started an IV inside her elbow. She pulled away to no avail. 

Once at the hospital, she was sedated and paralyzed. Doctors rushed to pump her stomach. 

I thought of my parents and wondered: Did they miss me? Were they sad when I moved out? 

Whatever. They're still alive.

But it sucks to be alone.