Microstory 14: Inhibition

They’re always green with a white stripe. Today, they are white with a green stripe. I reach into my memory and try to recall, just to make sure that I’m not mistaken. But I cannot confirm it. Did scientists change the design of the pills? Was I remembering it wrong? Was I about to take the wrong medication? I shrug my shoulders and take two. I guess I have to trust the professionals. I feel nothing, not that I should so quickly anyway. The pills never fix my anxiety. They’re supposed to slightly lower my inhibitions; just enough to give me confidence to get through the day. Without them, I would not be able to do my job. My clients expect quite a bit out of me, and I have always delivered. I’ve really only had trouble concentrating for the last few months. My memory hasn’t been great either. I think one of my assignments slipped through my fingers the other day, but I can’t remember. I breathe deeply and place my hands on the corners of the vanity as memories once lost slowly return. That’s why I recieved company this morning, waiting for me in the living room. The longer I stand here, the more I feel different. They were definitely the wrong pills. I feel the same as I do with the regular ones, but far more intensely. Second by second, the inescapable urge to tell the truth swells over me. I try to suppress it. I can’t lose my job. But it overcomes me. Consequences begin to seem like nothing. Yes. Wrong pills. In fact, I think the pharmacist did it on purpose. What did she know about him? In a bit of a daze, I walk out of the bathroom and approach the visitors. One of the police officers is holding up a photograph. “Yes, I know him. I tried to kill him, but he got away. I’m still under contract, so I need to find him. Why do you ask?”