Little Blue Pill

© 2002 S. J. Hinton
All rights reserved.

I'd been taking the little blue tablets for six days, and I was considering going off them.

You can laugh at that, if you want to, but I classify the pills I take by their color. It's easier than remembering their names. At one time, I looked forward to getting a new color ... to completing my collection. I had purple, red, pink, white, and a kind of tan-colored pill. Some were coated; others were time-released. When Doctor Adams gave me the prescription and I picked up my little blue tablets, my first thought was that I'd never had a blue pill before.

Then I remembered that the blue pill should take the place of all the others. That made me sad.

So I took a pill.

I'd taken some kind of meds most of my adult life, generally several at once. Finally my new doctor, Abraham Adams, suggested we try to weed out the number of medications I took each day with a course of 150 milligrams of Metabutol daily.

"It's something new, and only got its okay from the FDA last month," he said.

Once upon a time, I'd cared enough about what went into my body that I'd read all the literature I could find on the subject. Now, I mostly was concerned about what color the pill was.

He said it would be about a week until the level of the drug in my bloodstream built up enough to start having a real effect. The first day I took it all I got was dry mouth, and I must've drunk a quart of water.

The second day I got a mild case of the shakes right after taking the pill. It went away within thirty minutes or so, and it just made me feel wide awake until around noon.

By the fourth day, I was feeling a little bit more, well, up. I didn't know whether that was because of the pill or not, since I was due for the manic part of my cycle. The real test would be when I started to come down.

The sixth day. That's when it began.

It started when I became convinced that something was under my bed. I don't know what I thought it was, or where it came from, or how on earth it could've gotten under there in the first place. I just knew it was there.

And, of course, nothing was.

Which discovery was followed by the most hideous nausea I'd ever felt. I was disoriented and developed a murderous headache. I had to lie down for a while, which quickly became eight-thirty, so I called in sick.

"Well," mused Doctor Adams over the phone. I had been surprised to find him available to speak to me. "The dosage could be higher than you need, but I'd think that your body just needs to adjust. Give it a few days, then call back if you don't feel better."

I tried to sleep, but couldn't. Just when I decided to get up, I dozed off.

I had a dream where I had been moved into a room at the hospital for observation. The walls were mirrors, and I knew people were behind them, watching my every move. I couldn't stand it anymore, so I picked up a chair and threw it.

And woke up on my bed. I had adjusted the air conditioner thermostat since I was going to be at work all day, and I hadn't turned it down. I'd lain down fully clothed for work, and now I was hot and my clothes were drenched. I all but tore off the clingy fabric and lay back down, cooling myself under the air conditioner vent.

I slept most of the day through,and was feeling much better by late afternoon. I went out to pick up something to cook for dinner, then changed my mind and bought Chinese from a take-out restaurant near my house. I walked in spite of the baking heat that we'd had this part of July, since it was only about a mile to and from the store. Today was cooler by far than the first part of the week.

I walked along the sidewalk to the road and along the main street until I came to the light where I'd cross. The sun was bright, even though the sky was marked with scattered gray clouds, and the heat reflected off the pavement wasn't as bad as you might expect. In other words, things seemed okay with the world for once.

That was when I felt it: like a sharp icicle driven into the base of my skull. It was the feeling of being scrutinized by hidden eyes; much worse than anything I could've imagined in my wildest nightmares. I shuddered and sweat broke out on my skin.

Then it was gone. Poof. Like nothing at all had happened. The gooseflesh vanished, and the sweat of fear dried sticky on my skin. I realized someone was talking to me from only a few feet away.

I turned and saw a large Hispanic man sitting in a faded blue pickup where he'd pulled off to the side of the road. The truck's tired engine huffed emphysemically. "You okay, fella?" he was asking.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm all right."

He nodded. "You look sick. Maybe like you seen a ghost?"

I swallowed. "No, really. I'm fine."

He shrugged and waved, driving off, choking hot exhaust fumes and a cloud of dust blowing into my face. Maybe like you seen a ghost? Yeah, maybe. It sure felt like it.

All I wanted to do was go home, but the market was just across the street and it seemed a shame to have wasted the walk. My glance skimmed across the suddenly too-hot parking lot and I saw the Chinese restaurant off to my right. More important, it was on this side of the street. I don't know why, but the whirring tires and questionable rhythm of the traffic lights seemed threatening.

I made it back to my house but found I'd lost my appetite. I wanted a cigarette, but I'd quit almost eight months ago. I also wanted a drink, but there was nothing in the house and it'd probably kill me on top of the medication, anyway. So I called Doctor Adams' office again.

"He's with a patient right now," the receptionist said as she came back on the line. "But he said that if you felt the medication is causing any side effects, you should cut the dosage by half and call him back next week."

"That's great," I replied, hoping my voice was dripping in sarcasm. "And in the meantime?"

"Well, you don't seem to be having any life-threatening reactions," she said. "But if you're concerned, go to the emergency room of your local hospital. And remember to take along your medication."

"Fat lot of good you are," I snarled.

I heard her say "Sir, I'm a registered psychiatric nurse ... " before the click of the receiver cut her off. Then a feeling of unease washed over me. That, I thought, was stupid. I'd burned my bridges behind me. Now if I called back, she would know it was the guy who was getting hysterical over nothing. Oh, I knew it was her job to handle such situations, but I'd made an ass out of myself, and I couldn't bring myself to call back.

And, frankly, I really didn't think this was anything life-threatening. Very disconcerting, yes, I'd say so. Frightening, true enough. But knowing it was just my body's way of adjusting to the new medication helped a lot. And knowing, too, that I'd survive the day and lower the dosage so that the same thing wouldn't happen tomorrow, was a relief.

By night I was feeling much calmer. I managed to eat some of the Chinese food and even sat down to watch an old movie on the classics station. Now, that doesn't mean I was completely sedate, because I don't like the dark and I've never been at ease at night. But I was no more jumpy ever, and that was something to be happy about.

Until about nine o'clock. The phone rang at nine, and I reached for it without looking first. Then, when my fingers missed the phone and I turned to look, I found a huge black many-legged thing squatting where the phone should be.

I screamed like a child, my heart making one big pumping pulse deep in my chest and squeezing out any room for my lungs to fill. I felt something warm and wet on my leg and realized I'd peed myself, and I didn't even want to think about whether I might have lost even more control than that. I bolted to the far side of the room, my wild eyes staring at —

—the phone. Just a clunky old-fashioned black thing sitting right where it always sat on my end table. And it wasn't even ringing. It hadn't, except for that one ghostly ring I thought I'd heard.

"Shit," I said without much feeling. I was standing there with egg on my face and pee dribbling down my leg. I didn't even notice at first that the odd pressure was building up, the feeling that something was watching me. I stood still for a heartbeat, then whirled around like a kid trying to catch someone moving in a game of Stoplight. The image made me chuckle a bit, and the pressure was released like a lanced boil. I rubbed a palm across my face, then scrubbed at my forehead.

"Shit," I repeated.

Ten o'clock. At least I thought so. I'd lost track and couldn't read the clock. I'd heard the phone ring again ... I'm sure of it this time, since it rang eight times by my count ... but I couldn't bear to reach out and answer it. I tried, but my hand shook too much, and my fingers refused to unclench, and my palms were slick with cold sweat.

I'd gone into the bathroom to clean myself up, and my legs almost hadn't worked. I staggered like a drunk and hugged the wall near the door until I could get my breathing under control. Then I reached out a trembling hand and, after three tries, managed to click on the light. It was almost three minutes before I could force myself to look into the bathroom to find it empty. Still, I couldn't get into the shower and close the curtains: I knew something could creep up on me while I couldn't hear because of the splashing of the water, or couldn't see because of the soap in my eyes. Or maybe everything would be okay until I was done, and I'd sweep the curtains aside and it would be standing there on bent legs.

I made do by using a damp washcloth. Then I put on a dirty pair of jeans from the hamper, no underwear. All my underwear was in the second drawer of my dresser, and I couldn't go into the bedroom.

So I walked into the living room, leaving on or turning on every light I passed. I tried to sit on the couch, but I was convinced something could hide behind it. So I sat on the floor, but the shadows underneath the couch were alive. I eventually perched on a dining room chair with its back propped against the wall.

And I know what you're thinking, and I realized that I should have been blaming the medication. It should have been the fault of those little blue pills, it really should. But I knew that wasn't it. I knew things were just not right anymore, and it wasn't the pills that were causing it. It was the pills that were letting me see it for the first time.

I heard a rumbling from outside. It was probably just a truck rolling by, but maybe it wasn't. I had to find out, but I didn't want to see. Not really.

But I forced myself to look. It was probably the hardest thing I'd ever done. The rumbling got louder, and I became more drenched with sweat. I reached out with a shaking hand to part the blinds and peered outside.

It was a truck. A garbage truck, to be exact, making its way with jerks and pauses along the street. But through the lens of insight granted me by those little blue pills, I realized garbage trucks don't wend their busy way down streets at ten o'clock at night. Through the perception provided me by those little blue pills, I could see through the disguise, and know what was creeping down my street. I saw the bowed back and hulking shape. I saw the glaring eyes, thankfully turned toward other tasks than me.

And then it was just an ordinary truck, a pickup driving away from a neighbor's house on some errand.

I put my hand to my mouth and bit down hard enough on the knuckle to draw a thin trickle of blood. I wanted to cry out, but I was afraid: afraid they would know I was insane and come to drag me away, but also afraid it was all true and the monsters would hear and come to devour me. So I did nothing but bite my knuckle and stifle the scream clawing its way up my throat.

Had it gotten lighter outside? No. I was sure it was late night. Almost.

About an hour later, I think, the scratching started outside. It sounded like a cat cleaning after himself, burying his business beneath the clay of his litter. It seemed to wander about, shifting locations and being very industrious. Sometimes it seemed to draw near, other times it was more distant.

Finally, it seemed to be at my door.

At first I just sat and stared. My imagination supplied the creaking of the door, as well as the surging movement, as if the door gave a little and flexed at each scrape of some huge paw. I blinked, surprised to find tears running down my face, and the door's movement stopped. The scratching, far too slight to force the door, continued.

"Go away," I whispered. And still the scratching.

"Go away," I repeated, louder. I fancied I detected a slight pause and imagined a furred head cocking one pointed ear at the doorjamb. Whether I heard the pause or not, the scratching continued.

"Go away!" I screamed, standing up. My eyes bulged and cords stood out from my neck. I felt the headache pound to life, and I fell to my knees, vomiting onto the carpet.

I felt sick, although the headache was gone. No puddle coagulated on the carpet and no chair stood with its back against the wall. I sat on the floor, staring at the door, from which no sound issued.

Except for a scratching, which came without warning.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted, standing. I was at the door almost before I knew what I was doing. I grabbed the wooden baseball bat I kept behind an end table for emergencies and grabbed the doorknob with a shaking hand.

The scratching stopped.

It knows I'm here, I thought, panicked. It's waiting for me to open the door. So I waited, and no sound came from outside. The scratching had subsided, the monster was gone, and I was safe. I sighed.

Scritch, came the sound from the door. It was hardly a sound at all, more the slightest twitch of a claw.

I jerked to open the door, and it resisted. I'd forgotten it was locked. I fumbled, hearing something on the other side move, and I realized I'd lost the element of surprise. The door swung open, and I raised the bat.

In the darkness, the shape was about the size and shape of a man. For the slightest instant I hesitated, and then it reared up with glowing eyes. It was smaller than I'd thought ... no taller than my shoulder and slighter than I ... but its huge maw opened. I swung the bat, the impact numbing my arm, and the thing went down. It shuddered and tried to raise itself up, so I hit it several more times. Then it was still.

I dragged the thing into the living room after assuring myself it was dead. I closed and locked the door behind me, and I've heard nothing else since.

It's an ugly thing, all pale unhealthy flesh like a badly healed wound. It has a small head with bulbous eyes and a huge mouth. It's like nothing I've ever seen. Ripped fabric hangs off its body, as if it had made a rude attempt to clothe itself like a human.

It's been two days. I'm not sure of that, since I appear to have lost the ability to sense the passage of time. But I seem to recall seeing the light of day twice since killing the monster. No one's checked on me. I don't have family nearby and can recall no real friends who would miss me. I don't think I ever knew the names of my neighbors, or cared, and now I can't remember them at all. I doubt if they even know who I am.

I'm sure I haven't taken my meds in at least a day, perhaps two, but that doesn't seem to matter. I haven't eaten in at least a day, either, but I don't know if I could find my way to the kitchen or stand to fix a meal even if I could.

The world has changed, you see, and I'm a stranger in its emerging topography. I'm lost thousands of miles from my home, while still sitting near the wall of my own living room.

I have a theory: We have lost the ability to see some of the universe around us. Maybe it's been bred out of us. Just like we can't see into the infrared spectrum because it serves no purpose for us to be able to do so, we can't see some of the things around us. Perhaps that's the secret to people we brand as insane or disturbed. They see behind the curtain.

Anyway, my theory is that the little blue pill did just that. It tweaked something inside my head and let me see and hear things going on around us that most people aren't aware of. When you get that feeling of being watched, it's some bug-eyed monstrosity observing you taking your shower. But you don't need to know that, so you can't see it. Don't worry. Soon enough common sense will step in and the feeling will go away. That's how it's supposed to work.

So now I sit in my living room, with no remembered point of reference to let me escape. There's the body of a monster laying a few feet away, and I think it's been a couple of days because the body is starting to smell a bit ripe. It never smelled good, but now it's distinctly beginning to smell worse. I'm not sure about my perceptions anymore, so how do I know what's real? I mean, am I able to see things other people can't? Or is this all something in my mind?

Or, worst of all, is that thing on the floor something ordinary, and I just imagined it was a monster?

Good God, did I kill a person who was standing outside my door?

I bite back that particular scream, because I think that would be the worst nightmare of all. And sometimes, when I doze, I think that if I could find the front door and open it, I might find a handful of mail or a bag of Avon products scattered across the front steps.

But even if I found something like that, I'd never know if it was real, or just a gift courtesy of my little blue pill.

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