The Miracle Pill

The dark little tablet sits on the plastic tray in front of me. Perfectly black. Not even light affects it. No hint of reflection from the fluorescent lights overhead. The longer I stare at it, the more it seems to stare back, beckoning me.

Another coughing spasm tears through me, sending waves of pain to every corner of my being. I wipe my mouth with the hospital blanket they’ve draped over me, and when I lower it, it’s wet with blood.

No more stalling. Heads I win, tails I lose.

I’d said goodbye to Marisa. The twins wrapped their arms around me until they were pulled away.

I couldn’t tell if Marisa’s last words were for me or for them.

Everything will be okay.

I was wheeled into the isolation wing. The “Treatment Center,” though the sterile name can’t mask what everyone knows.

This is where desperate people come to gamble with death.

There’s a fifty percent chance this little pill will not only cure the cancer in my lungs, bones, and brain, but everything else wrong with me. High cholesterol? Gone. High blood pressure? Gone. Eyesight? Perfect. Hearing? So long, tinnitus.

The other fifty percent of the time, it’s death. Instant. Painless?

Time to roll the dice. I steel myself and reach out to the little black speck. My hand stops midway. An involuntary pause.

I force myself to pick up the pill.

“Good luck,” comes the wet and raspy voice from the bed next to mine.

I glance over at my roommate. She’s a withered version of the woman from her campaign ads.

Without responding, I put the pill in my mouth and take a sip of water.

The moment I swallow, the nurse comes back into the room and walks to the other bed. She sets down the water and pill in front of my companion and leaves as silently as she came.

Nothing to do now but wait for whatever the pill is about to do to me. Some people think this discovery is proof of God’s existence. How else could such a thing come to be?

Others, myself included, think it may prove the opposite. The universe, once again, revealing its true nature. Pure chaos. How else could the power of both life and death be found in such a small vessel?

I glance back at my roommate. Her expression shows no worry, no unease. No fear. Her mouth curls up into a little smile as she reaches out and picks up the pill.

As she brings it to her mouth I feel a sharp pang in my chest.

She swallows it.

My heart seizes.

I clutch my chest, fighting to breathe. I keep staring at her while something inside me screams. Something that has nothing to do with dying.

The thought forces its way through, and I open my mouth to deny it out loud, but the breath I need is already gone.

As I fall into blackness one question follows me down.

Why is her pill white?

BIO: Ken Saunders is a writer of horror and all things twisted. His short story SALVATION STREET TACOS was published earlier this year in Horrortree.com's online magazine Trembling With Fear. They have also just accepted his micro fiction story BEAR NECESSITIES for publication later this year.

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