Vivid nights.

She woke to a wet face and snot covered nose. The tears were cold, sticky against her cheeks. Her hair stuck against the side of her face, while the tip of her nose began to crust.

She could smell the previous night: stale sheets from sweat, cheap whiskey from her cabinets, and something sour she couldn't quite place. It was causing her to retch. Used tissues filled her evergreen nightstand and littered her dingy carpet.

All of the crap seemed to fit in with the rest of the decor.

Her face became hot as the pain came back. Ugly sobs fell out of her lips, and they didn't even fill the old room. The walls held none of her cries in repay of the many times they'd listen to her empty threats, and half-ass prayers to a god she wasn't even sure was listening.

She got out of bed now.

An eternal pain prodding her towards the kitchen.

She reached for the pills that sat innocently on her refrigerator.

She opened a bottle's top, tapped the bottom and delicate pills began to fill her palm. She discarded the now empty bottle and placed it in the garbage.

She noticed her glass was shaking slightly, despite her firm hold of the cup. She turned on the tap and allowed some cool water to fill it.

She wasn't sure how many pills were now dormant inside of her, but later that night, the pain didn't come back.

And neither did she.