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Then come back to me.

Then come back to me.

I stare at those words for a long, long time. Until the letters blur. Until all I see is the meaning behind them. My traitorous body is ready to pack a bag and head straight back to the penthouse. My brain thankfully still has a vote.

I get up to find something for the headache building behind my eyes and end up rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. That's when I find it. A half-empty orange prescription bottle shoved behind a box of bandages.

Sertraline, the generic of Zoloft. I pick it up and stare at it. The label is almost worn off. For a second, I don't evenremember when I stopped taking it. Then I do. The memories arrive all at once.

I remember a kind of ferocity driving me all my life. An intensity. The feeling that everything mattered too much. Until one day I sat in a doctor's office and told her I couldn't do it anymore. Everything felt out of control. Mom was Mom. Pete was Pete. I was working full time, taking care of everyone, trying to keep the peace, trying to be good enough.

I told the doctor there were days I burned dinner and felt guilty for hours afterward. Not normal guilty. Catastrophically guilty. The kind where one mistake felt like proof I was a terrible person. I remember telling her that when my husband and mother looked disappointed, I didn't feel like I ruined a meal.

I felt like I'd run over somebody's dog. The doctor listened. Then she handed me a prescription. The magic blue pill. And it worked. God, it worked.

The constant anxiety softened. The guilt stopped swallowing me whole. Everything became easier. More manageable. More distant. I lean against the bathroom counter. The bottle cool in my hand. I'm not blaming the medication. Or the doctor.

Neither one forced me to stay. The truth is uglier than that. I needed a change. I needed therapy. I needed boundaries. I needed to get away from Razor's ghost. Away from my mother's expectations. Away from a marriage that slowly became a cage. Instead, I made myself smaller. Quieter. Easier.

I adapted. And adaptation became habit. Then years passed. Five. Six.

I stare at the bottle. At the life I built. At the woman I became. And for the first time, I wonder if somewhere along the way I stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what would make everybody else comfortable.

Is it possible… Is it possible that these were the culprits that put old Audra to sleep? I rememberforgettingto take thepills lately. Instinctively, I had weaned myself off. Was that the reason why I became so dissatisfied?

I finish the ice cream I started a while ago, get a stomachache, throw up, and take a nap. I want to forget all of this.

When I wake, it's almost dark. I pick up the phone and call my mother.

"Audra, where the hell are you? Jack and Mario just got here. Just. Now. I've been alone all day. Did you even come home last night?"

I sigh. I had been mentally prepared for the onslaught, but I wasn't even close to being mentally ready for this call.

"I need some time, Mom. I met with Kelly and Maggie yesterday, and Maggie told me?—"

"So you leave me alone here? With a mobster? A criminal?"

Deep inhale, Audra, deep inhale.I perk myself up. She's in one of those moods. I know there's no talking to her when she's like that.

"I just called to tell you I'm okay. I'll see you in a couple of days, Mom."

"Oh,you'reokay? What about me? I could be dead right now for all you care. You don't care about me, Audra. You don't. You've always been selfish."

That hurts more than it should. I tell myself that she's just inthat mood. That she'll be over it in the morning and sorry. In my current state of mind, though, it doesn't help. Tears roll down my cheeks.

An incoming text dings; I hang up on Mom and check it.

Devil:

Why are you crying?

I close my eyes. I'm not in the mood for this right now. I'm really not.

Me:

Quit stalking me.

Devil: