The Last Prescription

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die; fleeting glimpses of your most beautiful moments, the laughter of those you loved, flashes of warmth and regret. Just another lie the living use to comfort themselves. All I see right now is a void... and some red ink staining the medical prescriptions in front of me.

How did I end up in this plush leather chair, wearing a white coat that doesn’t belong to me, reeking of iron and blood? It’s simpler than you might imagine. It all started as a game. A naive little play to cheat the system, to get my hands on those colorful little capsules that made this mundane world tolerable. I feigned depression, faked panic attacks, and shed cold tears before doctors who thought they were reading my very soul.

I didn't realize then that the real stage was my own mind, and that I wasn't the brilliant actor I thought I was... I was merely the audience, watching myself tied down while the theater burned with everyone inside.

At first, I swallowed the pills to kill the monster of boredom and anxiety. But the anesthetic didn't kill the monster; it devoured the "human" inside me, leaving my body a hollow shell. I remember that day at the café clearly. The place was teeming with life, the clinking of coffee cups, the chatter of people, their laughter. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mouth split into a deafening, hysterical laugh. My body trembled, and guffaws tore at my throat. People froze in their tracks, staring at me in sheer terror. They saw a madman laughing with overwhelming joy, but as for me... I wasn't there. I was standing outside, watching from behind the glass of my own eyes as this stupid body convulsed, while inside, I was silent, cold, and dead as a grave.

Gradually, I lost control. Not control over my actions, but control over "meaning." The dark thoughts that doctors call "obsessive-compulsive" stopped being terrifying.

Last week, I was at the Hill Park. I saw a little boy chasing his ball toward the edge of a steep, stone staircase. I stood right behind him. I could smell the shampoo in his hair. My mind whispered to me: "What if you pushed him? Would it shake your core? Would you feel guilty?" My hand reached out slowly, and in one cold, calculated motion, I shoved him into the air.

I watched him fall like a ragdoll, his fragile body slamming against the marble steps. The screams of people rose around me; they ran right past me, while I stood there, watching the little corpse at the bottom. I waited for my heart rate to spike, to tremble, to cry. But... nothing. A bitter disappointment washed over me because my heart didn't beat a single extra time. I felt nothing.

Even when I tried to commit suicide indirectly, the world failed me. Yesterday, I was driving my car at a reckless speed, over a hundred and forty kilometers an hour. I saw the red light from afar, and I saw that old woman crossing the street, and another car coming from the intersection. I could have hit the brakes, but my mind screamed: "Crash! Maybe you'll wake up!"

I slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Glass shattered, metal tore, and blood flew. I woke up in the hospital, surrounded by machines and an irritating white light. They told me the old woman died, and that I survived by a miracle. They said the speed cameras were broken, and the accident was chalked up to a brake failure in my car and the old woman crossing at the wrong time. The law acquitted me. I escaped a prison of iron, but I was already imprisoned in a much worse place; in a breathing, unfeeling corpse.

And now, I sit here, on this comfortable leather sofa in the clinic of "Dr. Tariq," the behavioral therapist. The room is warm, and he sits across from me, smiling warmly, holding a notebook and a pencil.

"How are you feeling today after that horrific accident?" he asked in his calm voice, which sounded to me as if it were coming from underwater. "Is there any remorse? Are you having those obsessive thoughts again?"

I wasn't looking at him. My eyes were fixed with terrifying focus on his desk. Next to the glass of water, there was a heavy metal pen, with a sharp, pointed tip, gleaming under the lamp's light.

"Doctor..." I began to speak, my voice coming out hollow, as if echoing from the bottom of a well. "Do you know what's worse than pain? Worse than grief, or terror, or even madness?"

He stopped writing and furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

I finally raised my head and looked into his eyes. I wanted him to see the black hole that had swallowed me.

"It's 'Nothingness'," I said coldly. "When the chemical cocktail that makes you human evaporates. When you become a walking corpse. I laugh hysterically in the streets, but inside I am silent. I pushed a child to his death in the park, and I ran over an old woman yesterday... just because I wanted to feel the shock of my own body, to feel my heart pound. But I felt nothing. I am like a blind man... trying desperately to remember what the color red looks like."

Dr. Tariq's face paled. His eyes widened, and he leaned back into his chair. His notebook fell to the floor. He tried to reach for the phone, whispering broken words about the police and psychological trauma.

But I was faster.

"The drugs I took numbed the monster," I said as I stood up slowly, my hand reaching for that shiny metal pen. "But they killed me along with it. The void, Doctor, is not an empty space..."

I gripped the pen tightly, and in one swift, sudden motion, I lunged at him.

"...The void is a creature that devours you from the inside, until you become it."

I plunged the metal pen with all my might into his neck. There was no sound except the muffled tearing of flesh. He fell backward, his eyes bulging in absolute terror. Hot blood spurted, staining his shirt, the desk, and my hands. I stood over him, watching him choke on his own blood. I watched the light fade from his eyes. And even in that moment... my face was completely devoid of expression. I felt no euphoria, nor regret.

I pulled the pen out and left it there. I walked with calm steps down the empty hallway toward the adjacent room, the room of the doctor who used to write me those cursed prescriptions. I opened the door. He looked at me in shock, seeing the blood dripping from my hands. I didn't give him a chance to ask. I finished it quickly and quietly.

And now... the play is over.

I am sitting in his plush chair. I took off my jacket and put on his blood-stained white coat. I placed my hand on the pile of blank prescription pads. I have taken their place. I am the doctor, I am the patient, and I am the disease itself. But none of them could write me the right prescription.

I opened the drawer and took out a luxurious fountain pen. I raised it slowly to my neck, looking at my reflection in the small mirror on the desk.

I always thought madness was losing your mind, doing things you aren't aware of... What a sick joke. True madness, absolute madness, is when your mind continues to function with perfect efficiency. It analyzes, thinks, grasps every tiny detail, and justifies the most hideous acts to you... while the real 'you' died a long time ago, leaving nothing behind but a maggot feeding on your own corpse.

I played the role of the patient to steal a cure for a disease I didn't have... and so the real disease swallowed me. I was running from the cruelty of life, only to find myself in the hell of numbness.

I closed my eyes, and with a violent motion, I plunged the pen into my neck.

Blood erupted, and pain pierced every cell of my deadened body. My pupils dilated, and I leaned my head against the back of the chair as blood gushed, drenching the white coat.

And here... in this exact moment... a miracle happened.

This burning fire in my neck. This slow suffocation. The hot, rusty taste of blood filling my mouth. The corners of my lips rose slowly, and for the first time in years, a genuine smile painted my face. A wide, warm, and utterly sincere smile.

I felt pain. It's the first real thing I've felt in years.

Everyone in this world is desperately searching for a prescription to survive, to live another day without pain. As for me... with my trembling hand leaving one final bloody fingerprint on the blank white prescription pad... I have just dispensed my only prescription...

Just to make sure, that I was alive.

© 2026 MurtxOne