Illustration by Bob AulWhen you joked at your dinner party that you were in need of a painkiller, you told me all I needed to know: that somewhere in your house—probably the bathroom medicine chest—I'd find one. I did. And not just one, but an entire bottle—29 out of 30 prescribed two years ago. I took them all. Cleaned you out. Your cute little daughter actually saw me, but she is nearly incapable of recognizable speech, so I figured I was safe. I was. I regret the act and wish I could stop, but I can't even tell my husband I'm an addict. Shortly after I stole all of your Vicodin tabs, I was finished with them and wondering where I'll get more. I'd feel bad if I weren't feeling so good.
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