Writers 
After waiting for so long, I was alone.
And all I could think about was the happy pill waiting for me.
I had spent an entire month fighting the urge.
Now, the waiting was finally over.
I slipped into the room and turned the lock with a soft, final click, sealing myself off from the world. My heart hammered with a frantic, desperate rhythm as I made a beeline for my hiding spot the loose floorboard under my bed where I kept my "happy pills." Finally, finally, I could swallow them again. My fingers trembled as I unscrewed the cap, and I quickly tossed one into my mouth, dry-swallowing it without water. The familiar, warm rush spread through my chest like a soothing balm, and a dizzying euphoria washed over me—that blissful, hollow feeling I had been craving for what felt like an eternity. It was a brief escape from a loneliness I couldn't name, and I chased that feeling relentlessly.
I continued this ritual, but soon, one pill wasn't enough. The dosage crept up, and by the age of eight, I was an addict without even knowing the word. I just loved the way it made the world go soft and fuzzy around the edges. Soon, I went from one pill to two, then three. Whenever I ran out, I'd give the money I was saving to Tanko,, who always had a fresh supply ready.
Mum came home as usual, her presence a fleeting shadow in our house. But she could feel the distance growing between us, a chasm I myself couldn't explain. I didn't want to be close to her anymore. It wasn't anger; it was fear. I was terrified that if she held me, if she looked into my eyes for too long, she would see the secret shimmering in my dilated pupils. Tanko repeatedly warned me, his voice a low, menacing hiss: "Don't tell Mum. Don't tell Rose."
Eventually, I overheard Mum and Rose talking in the kitchen. Rose, ever the optimist, said, "It's probably just a sign of him growing up, ma. Or maybe he's finally getting used to the fact that you won't always be around." And Mum, weary and eager for an easy answer, simply believed her. I was relieved. Rose had unknowingly handed me the perfect alibi. Sometimes, I'd lock myself in my room for hours, just to have the space to pop my pills in peace, the silence my only companion.
One day, Mum suggested I get out more. "Your life is just school and home, Simon," she said, her voice tinged with a guilt she tried to mask. "You need to move around. Go to the children's parks." Rose chimed in, saying she had a friend who could take me out and bring me back safely. Mum asked if Rose truly trusted this friend. Rose nodded, her eyes wide and earnest. "Yes, Ma. I trust him completely." Mum just agreed, not even bothering to ask who this mysterious friend was. And, of course, that friend was Tanko.
So began our new routine. Tanko would take me to the park for two hours every Wednesday, from four to six in the evening. On Saturdays, we went from ten in the morning until noon. Rose warned Tanko, her voice sharp with a maternal instinct she rarely showed, not to do anything stupid. He just smirked and promised. He kept his word, in his own way. He'd just drop me off at the swings, watch me while he smoked something that smelled acrid and bitter, and then take me home. Tanko barely spoke, so we had nothing to discuss. One day, I asked him if he took happy pills too. He just laughed—a dry, humorless sound—and said, "I don't take that kiddie stuff anymore. It's for children." I didn't ask further questions. I just nodded, accepting his verdict.
I kept taking the happy pills for three more years. By then, I was eleven, and I was an ardent, full-blown addict. Mum, still oblivious, traveled even more often. Sometimes she'd leave without a word of notice, only calling days later to announce she had safely reached her destination. Life continued in its monotonous, numbing rhythm. I didn't care about her absence anymore. Tanko still took me to the park, and Rose continued being Rose—kind, but hopelessly naive.
Then, one Saturday, everything changed. On our way back from the park, Tanko stopped abruptly in front of a crumbling, skeletal structure—an uncompleted building. "Follow me," he said, a strange glint in his eye. "I'm going to show you where men gather." My heart thumped with a confusing mix of terror and excitement. I was scared because I didn't fully trust Tanko, but I was also thrilled because he said it was where men gathered—and that meant I was a man.
We entered the building, and a group of rough-looking men, who all seemed to share Tanko's hard, unreadable expression, were huddled together, smoking. Tanko swaggered over, exchanging greetings in a coarse, vulgar language I didn't understand. He whispered something to one of the men, who then let out a low, admiring whistle and handed Tanko a small package wrapped in brown paper. Tanko beckoned me to follow him into a dark, dusty room. My footsteps echoed on the bare concrete.
"Sit," he commanded. "I want to show you how men do stuff." He rolled a brown, leafy substance into a thin piece of paper, licked the edge, and lit it with a cheap lighter. The flame cast dancing shadows on his face. He handed it to me. I hesitated, the smell pungent and unfamiliar. But I was desperate to know how men felt. I took it, brought it to my lips, and drew in a deep breath.
Immediately, my throat seized. I choked, coughed violently, and my chest burned as if I'd inhaled fire. I doubled over, gasping for air. "Tanko, if this is what makes me a man," I wheezed, my eyes watering, "I don't want to be a man."
He chuckled, patting my back roughly. "Come on, Simon. Everyone chokes their first time. I promise you, you'll do better. Just try it again."
"Tanko, I don't want to die," I cried, my voice trembling.
He talked me into it, his words a smooth, persuasive drone. I tried again, and this time, I didn't choke. The smoke filled my lungs, and a strange, heavy warmth spread through my limbs. The world began to warp and bend, colors bleeding into each other. I don't remember much after that. It was a Saturday, and Mum wasn't around, so we returned home late in the evening. I felt like I was floating, disconnected from my own body. "What happened to me?" I asked Tanko, my voice sounding distant and strange. He just grinned. "You're a man now," he said, pressing the rest of the brown paper into my hand. "Another secret. Keep it safe."
When we got home, Rose was frantic with worry. She was pacing the living room, phone in hand. "Where have you been?! Why weren't you picking up your calls?" Her voice was shrill. I didn't wait to hear Tanko's excuse. I just mumbled something about needing to shower and eat. I was ravenous.
The next day was Sunday. After a silent, tense breakfast with Rose, I decided to try that thing Tanko gave me. I locked myself in my room, my hands shaking with a nervous anticipation. I rolled it as best as I could remember, lit it, and inhaled. This time, I was successful. I didn't choke. I smoked all of it, watching the gray wisps curl towards the ceiling.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting at the dining table with Mum. She was crying—huge, silent sobs that shook her shoulders. Rose was hovering in the corner, her face pale and drawn. I was told later that I had been misbehaving, that I had stumbled out of my room, babbling nonsense, and that Rose had tried in vain to control me. But when Mum, who had come back unexpectedly, saw me in that state, she had somehow managed to coax me to the table, where I eventually slumped into a heavy, unnatural sleep.
Now, I sat there, my head pounding, too afraid to say a word. Mum's tear-streaked face was a mask of anguish and rage. "Rose," she said, her voice a cold, brittle shard, "for how long has this been going on?"
Rose swore, her voice cracking, that she knew absolutely nothing.
Then Mum turned to me, and her eyes blazed. "Simon," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous, "for how long?"
Tears were rolling freely down my cheeks. I couldn't speak. The words were lodged in my throat, tangled with the truth she didn't want to hear—the truth that her absence had hollowed me out, and I had only wanted to fill the void, to numb the sadness that consumed me every time she walked out the door.
"For how long, Simon?!" she screamed, her voice shattering the silence.
I jolted. "It's just today, Mummy! Just today!" I lied, the words spilling out in a desperate plea. Technically, I didn't lie. It was the first time with that substance. But the happy pills were a different story.
"Don't you dare lie to me, Simon!" she roared.
"I promise!" I whimpered.
Then she leaned in, her face inches from mine. "Where did you get them? Tell me, or I swear, I will lock you up in prison and punish you myself." Her threat was empty, but the terror in her voice was real. I had no option. I had to tell her about Uncle Tanko. I stammered out the story, pleading with her that Rose knew nothing. "He warned me not to tell you or Rose," I sobbed. "It was all him."
Mum was furious at everyone but herself. She didn't even seem to consider that her abandonment might have driven me to this. She just sat there, a terrifying statue of righteous anger, and made one call.
Tanko was arrested that very night. He was locked up in jail for giving hard drugs to an underage child and for drug laundering. Just like that, Tanko was out of my life.
But his absence didn't fill the void. It only made it bigger.
