You knew it would end here, sitting at the crest of a grassy knoll, watching the sun sink behind the trees. Your final day spent alone. Well you haven't really been alive have you. Drifting from empty house to empty house. Occasionally something would bring you back, wildlife, flowers, thunder ricocheting around the empty rooms, just for a moment or two.
You wonder if somewhere they are the ones missing you. If you were the one who disappeared, and the cars aren't rusting where their engines stopped, and the leaves aren't overgrowing the garage doors. The only difference in the world is that you are dead and buried, no difference at all.
Then why does the bottle in your hand feel so real? The plastic is hard and it doesn't break when you squeeze. The lid won't shift either, you have to twist it holding your breath and turning your cheeks red before it'll even budge. They spill out in to your hands, tiny things that once helped a woman with her diabetes. She took them daily so she could