The Pill

The pill rested in my mouth, its plastic coating cold against my palate. I rolled it around with my tongue, moving it left and right, careful not to swallow or bite it. It contained a toxin; once it broke, its contents would release a gas that would kill me in two seconds, maybe less. No pain, no thoughts - just a clean, peaceful death. I’d bought it on the darknet. It’s amazing what you can find there nowadays.

I sat in my armchair, facing the blank TV screen in my living room. I was ready.

Since I was a child, I’ve been aware of death. I was probably a rather clever child. While my friends didn’t think about death - or believed that when someone died they went to heaven - I could grasp the main idea. I knew that everything alive is doomed to die, sooner or later. Including dogs, cats, flowers, and me. I knew death meant ceasing to live. I knew the physical body would stop working.

The more interesting question was what happened to the soul. I constantly wondered: what is it like to be dead? I was never religious. I didn’t believe that there was anything beyond death – no “life after death,” neither heaven nor hell – so what was there? As a child, I tried to explain it to myself using a simple metaphor – it’s just like falling into a dreamless sleep. You fall asleep and wake up hours later without being aware of the time that has passed. When you’re asleep, you are simply dead for a while. That explained the lack of awareness. But that didn’t explain how you cease to exist forever - that you never wake up.

Being a rational person, I eventually stopped bothering with unsolvable questions. I didn’t know what it was to be dead; no one did. But I did know that I would die, like everyone else, sooner or later.

Yet, that realization left a void: if we all die, what is the meaning of life? What is the purpose of everything we do, think, and devote our lives to?

The answer I gave myself was simple – there is none. No meaning. Nothing matters. You die, and everything ceases.

You loved someone – gone.

You saved your money – gone.

You invented something – gone.

Yes, of course, what you did while alive may have some consequences for others. Some will mourn you; some may remember you for a while. Your children might even be disappointed with the small inheritance you left them. But all of that belongs to them, not you. There will be no ‘you’ anymore. You can tell yourself you worry about your loved ones, but you only worry about them now. When you’re dead, you won’t worry anymore. Anything you do is meaningless.

And that led me, early in my childhood, to an inevitable conclusion – I should end my life.

I wasn’t suicidal, at least not in a clinical way. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t suffering. I wasn’t depressed. Living just seemed pointless to me. You can’t win this game. I would watch my parents and the adults around me – running, working, worrying – only to grow old and eventually vanish. If everything is meaningless, you barely survive. Occasionally you enjoy yourself. But most of the time, the risk of suffering far outweighs the fleeting moments of joy.

As a child, I didn’t know how to end my life. In addition, I knew that if I died, my parents would be very miserable. So I decided to postpone my plan for a while. I understood that my life was pointless, like anyone else’s, but I had no intention of causing my parents suffering.

Life went on. I grew up, always thinking about the moment I would be free to leave this world.

One day I met a woman. She was beautiful and smart, and at first, she seemed so shy. I soon discovered she wasn’t shy at all. She taught me so many things, and we fell in love. Then we got married. I never told her about my plans, but I didn’t want to make her sad, so I postponed it again.

Then my son was born. I was so happy to have him; I felt a kind of love I had never felt before. I stayed home with him, played with him on the little rug in the living room, read him stories, and held his hand until he fell asleep. And yes, of course, I had to postpone again. I couldn’t leave my son to grow without a father.

The years went by. My parents had passed away – first my dad, and then my mom. A lot happened. My wife and I started to drift further and further apart, as sometimes happens. We divorced. I still care about her deeply, but we were no longer connected by that invisible cord that held me back.

My son moved away to the other side of the world for work, eventually staying there for the woman he married. We talk once a week, but my job as a father is done. He doesn’t need me anymore; he is no longer dependent on me.

And here I am. I’m sixty. Sitting in my armchair with that poisonous pill inside my mouth. Free at last.

I continue to roll the pill in my mouth, letting my mind wander. Finally, I made it. Finally, I can let go and leave this world. Nothing keeps me here anymore. My mind wanders, stretching time a little, until the final bite. I think about my son. I remember the first time I let him taste a lemon. The look of surprise and disbelief on his tiny face was hilarious; I couldn’t stop laughing. I remember my wife trying hard not to laugh as he was about to cry. I smile to myself.

My wife – I remember the day we tried to make homemade pizza. The flour bag tore, and the whole kitchen was filled with white dust that hovered everywhere. We couldn’t stop coughing and laughing.

And here is my father, teaching me to tie a tie. I don’t remember why I insisted on wearing a tie for that party, with typical teenage stubbornness, but he didn’t mind and patiently helped me. I remember my mother waking me up on the morning of my birthday to see the huge cake she’d made for me.

I don’t know why, but a tear streams down my cheek. And another one.

I stop rolling the pill. The cold coating suddenly makes me want to vomit.

I spit the pill out onto the floor. For a moment, I hesitate. Then I step on it. The pill cracks. A small purple cloud rises, curling up to my knee, and then it’s gone.

I stand there, breathing. For the first time in my life, I just breathe.