For a while after the attempt, everything was spectacular. It was as if a sensory grime was vomited with the sleeping pills and charcoal, and left behind in the ER’s biohazard bag. He drank in the sky’s shifting shades of blue, the smell of grass and gasoline on suburban weekends. He even savored the oaty richness of generic cereal scraping down his throat.
He was discharged, but doctors warned that relapse was often subtle.
“People feel fine but don’t notice the symptoms returning.”
He wouldn’t forget. He promised he would be back to see them — when cereal was boring again.