This World is Heavy

It's been three years to the day and still the memory burns just as deep as if it were yesterday. My fingers dance with the open pill bottle on the side table. Unable to secure their grip, they finally reach frustration and simply knock the bottle over, with every expectation of having to pick the contents up off the floor pill by pill. But the pills are gone. The whiskey is gone too. The only thing I have left to feed my addiction is seeing her.