A homicide detective returns home to find his mentally ill wife has disposed of her medication.
My first thought was that she overdosed. The medicine cabinet was open, the mirrored front facing the wall, pill bottles on the floor as confetti. I stepped on a child-proof cap, and felt like I'd run over a dog.
"Abby, what happened in here?"
"I'm done. I'm tired of shuttling myself to doctors, and taking pills for something that's in my head. I don't want us to live like this." I heard behind me.
I whipped around on her. "You're not done, Abby, okay?" My voice rose in ways I didn't like. I wasn't ordering someone to get on the ground. So many things were tearing through my mind. I argued with myself over how much longer it'd be before my whole family knew everything about Abby. Cop Jack said forever, Brother Jack said not long.
I was still thinking of calling poison control when she said, "I knew you'd be angry." If only they made Abby-proof caps.
"Why would I be angry with you, Abs?" I pushed her hair out of her face with the heel of my hand. "I would never be angry with you."
"You've gotten angry with me lots."
I heard the timer on the microwave go off downstairs. "What was that for?"
She didn't look at me. "That was when you were supposed to get home."
When I shut the medicine cabinet, I noticed the hinges were stubborn as if rusted, and then I noticed the mirror. It was a spider web of cracks.