Secret Pills and Where to Find Them

There have been a handful of times I've felt the itch at work. Unlike in the bathrooms of anonymous relatives and acquaintances, I have to restrain my fingers from scurrying off with them carefully stashed in my day planner or pants pocket. The desire has never overcome my fear of being caught, the knowledge that the fleeting high does not trump the possible punishment--a fact that always eludes me in my private life. Behind the counter, it's always another story.

Pouring out the 60 gram vial, I laid all the tablets and capsules on the counter. A cocktail of medications to heal ailments from the ache in your temples to the fungus on your feet. They had dropped or met some other unsanitary end before being put aside for destruction. Delicately placing each pill in its own plasticine bag, I began the arduous task of identify each of them. 200 pills to study and search for in the drug identifier. Most were mundane, synthroid, dicyclomine, metformin, I plodded along printing labels and sticking them on bags. I was bored with the whole task, numbed and slightly annoyed the store had let so many pile up. It must've taken years of laziness to drop this many pills on the ground and not identify a single one.

Two gray tablets, smooth, perfectly round, with a score on one side, and the number 20 embossed on the other. I typed it up, and felt a sizzle shoot through my spine when the results appeared. It was oxycodone 20mg, in my hand, and I was the sole purveyor of this knowledge. No one in the rest of the pharmacy had any idea of my discovery. I could've simply slid them into my calendar without a second thought and carried them out with me. My ears flushed as I dreamt of the euphoria I would receive for my slight indiscretion. Then, I pushed it out of my mind, deciding to come back to the idea.

I continued to search up more pills, slap labels on them; rinse and repeat. Once more I got a chill, as I found another oxycodone in my pile of goodies. The devil standing to my right whispered that I could easily get away with this. Off in the corner, labeling and bagging hundreds of drugs for destruction, as everyone else stayed immersed in the prescriptions piling up around them and the incessant ring of the phones.

After the oxycodone, I found an adderall. This was more of a shock than a joy. I had no desire to take it, but was simply startled at the quantity of schedule II drugs they had strewn about the floor.

The risk felt far too great, if I were to be caught. Perhaps I could lie and tell them it had ended up under my notebook, and I hadn't noticed. Not like anyone was going to flip through the pages.

I shoved all my desires down and drowned them out with the likely hood of arrest, or at least termination. Without thinking for too much longer, I printed out their labels, slapped them on the little clear bags, and handed them over to the pharmacist. He cocked an eyebrow in surprise at my finds, or maybe it was my honesty. Either way, it still leaves my heart heavy to imagine those drugs burned up and destroyed, so that no one would enjoy them. A lifetime of nights spent high going up in flames.

Keep an eye on your demons and good luck.

Love you,
Lucy