Benzodiazepines. As I did every time my heart was beating quicker than I could handle, I slid two small, white pills inside my mouth and let them melt slowly under my tongue. They tasted horrible and would numb my mouth enough not to be able to swallow or talk, but it would be a lie to say that wasn't one of the effects I was looking for.
No, I didn't self-harm, nor did I seek pain. I used the numbness to stop the muttering and nail-biting, so I could properly focus on thinking.
Maybe I needed these drugs more than I could admit. One used to be enough, until it wasn't. Two were enough for the time being, but soon they would work less than homoeopathy.
I gripped my bathroom sink and closed my eyes. I couldn't move my tongue. The light was dim but enough to see; still, I kept my eyes down, watching the rhythmic water drops leave the tap.
I was scared to raise my gaze and look at the mirror. As stupid as it sounds, I was scared to see who was there. What if I looked up and my features weren't mine anymore? What if my eyes were the wrong color? Even a new mole, a light sunburn on my nose and cheeks, or a little wrinkle made my heart rate spike up.
However, it could be worse–what if I were able to recognize as mine a feature that wasn't there previously?
Before the numbness wore off, I raised my head and stared at myself. I couldn't help but purse my lips together, making them shake as I revised my face profusely.
Everything was fine, as it had been for the previous thirty years. My eyes were the same plain, clear brown color. My hair wasn't so different, having almost the same tone as theirs. My skin wasn't exactly flawless—little red acne scars were scattered here and there, along with some moles and freckles. Furthermore, if I stressed enough during a short amount of time, I could see some pimples too.
I saw myself. Memories are uncertain, so I held on to physical appearance. It didn't need to be the same, just made sense with the natural passage of time and life.
Placing a hand on the mirror, I sighed in temporary relief. Memories are uncertain, yes—if you get them mixed up, that's it. That's what I feared. If I mistakenly thought that this life was real and not a long, very vivid comatose dream, then the possibility of finding someone else staring back at me was still there. Nothing could assure me that tomorrow I would wake up and still be the person I was yesterday.
"Fuck." I whispered. There it was once more, the overthinking. "I am Grace. I am Grace. I am Grace. Say it back, you fucker!" I screamed at my reflection. Sadly, I could talk again.
The bottle of benzos was sitting on the top left of the sink, open and available. I made a move to reach out and grab it, but stopped before I could. If I did, it wouldn't be to take only two. I could swallow the whole thing and just wait for my answer.
I wasn't suicidal; I didn't want to die. But when the uncertainty was too unbearable, my mind ached for quick knowledge. If at the other side I was me again, someone else, or none at all—they were all answers.
I wanted to keep living and to make sure I would; that was the only reason I had to consider suicide.
"You wouldn't let me out of this so easily, would you?" My hand touched the mirror, covering my eyes. "You would make it worse. I kill myself again, and you would make sure I forget what peace means, right?"
I wasn't talking to myself, I was talking to it.
"I will have my answer in Grace's last breath, won't I?"
And, as I never got a response, I could just speculate about its answers and delude myself into believing them, with the only certainty being the sins that brought me here.
I removed my hand from the mirror.
"Being the one who suffered from others' actions doesn't sound so bad compared to this weight. At least they can die and have a fresh start…"
I quickly covered my mouth and shut up. I couldn't have those types of thoughts; I couldn't say that out loud. I couldn't, and I wasn't going to, victimize myself and put the weight of my actions on others. I couldn't feel jealous of people's victims, no matter how much discomfort my previous actions caused me.
If I had rather been a victim myself, then it meant that I had never repented.
I needed to get out of the bathroom. I needed someone to look at me, to just slightly glance in my direction, and have them say my name.