Last summer I found a small box stashed away in my apartment, a box filled with enough Vicoden to kill me. I would have sworn that I’d thrown them away years earlier, but apparently not. I stared at the white pills blankly for a long while.
Remember (if you can) how it felt, remember Cheney (“Dick”), remember his sneer. Remember what it did to that knot in your back every time you failed to turn away from the television in time and accidentally glanced at his face, remember that knife blade twisting.