Pills

Our family is a diseased thing. We all have pills. We share them. “Do you want some?” We share everything. Everything looks disgusting. Things ooze inwards. Our disease grows inward. Clutter spreads through the house. I am beginning to smell like my Father. I never leave the house. We are forgetting to speak. “Want some?” There are crusts. There are cracks. There are piles of dust. My Sister has dirt on her face. My Mother is swelling up. The windows are clouded over. There are hand prints. I am never hungry anymore. The lights don’t work anymore. No one goes to work anymore. We are paid not to leave the house. Something is growing from my back. We itch each other. Pills are delivered. We try to communicate. “Want?” “Some.” My Father cannot see. My Father cannot hear. He opens his mouth for pills. Sometimes I don’t give them to him. My Mother cannot walk. My Mother cannot leave her bed. Her sheets are crumbling. My Sister sleepwalks. My Sister does not wake. My Sister does not speak. The doors are locked. I scratch skin off my scalp. The floor is covered. I hear noises. I shake uncontrollably. I can no longer smell. The hairs are peeling off our bodies. My fingernails are black. There are no more mirrors. There is a film over the walls. The towels are disintegrating. My Sister coughs. Cuts no longer heal. There are no more pills. Things are beginning to blur. I breathe.