Every day is like Sunday

The tablets popped out of their shiny cases onto the table each leaving behind a barely perceptible thud. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Soon there was enough for a fistful. I blew on the black coffee and caught its deep, dark scent.

Grabbing the fistful of pills I swallowed as much of them I could manage and drank the water next to the coffee with a glug. Glug, glug, glug. I crammed the remainder of the tablets into my mouth and washed them down, feeling the chalkiness dissipate on my tongue, in my throat. Then I took a sip of the coffee. My last meal. My longest habit. The drug I was most loyal to. Had been most loyal to.

I wondered if it would stop me feeling drowsy. I wondered if I would feel any pain or nausea as the overdose worked its way into my bloodstream. I wondered if I would fall asleep slowly, as if in a dream. If I would have any dreams before my eventual rest. Had I taken enough? Only time would tell.

Time lay before me now like a winter dawn, a long darkness, eventually giving way to pale light. I was not religious but somehow, the sunrise seemed appropriate to dwell on. Not a sunset. This final action in the face of so much inaction was too hopeful to have me reminisce about a setting sun. An eternity passed as I slowly drank my coffee. Is this what it felt like to be immortal? To know that there was nothing more to harm you? To face down time itself?