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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-11-28 00:45:59+00:00.

But I don’t think I should be.

In fact, I think something very, very bad has happened.

It began with Nikita, Alan, and a harebrained endeavour. They were trying to pull me out of my “funk”; a quirky, palatable way of referring to clinical depression. Not that I have to worry about such things anymore.

The day has almost entirely pushed out the night.

Nikita and Alan, with conniving looks on their little faces, were chortling at me from the sofa. I tried to ignore them, instead finding purchase on the armrests of my chair; busying my fingers by kneading the fabric like dough. Stimming, folk call it. Certainly used to help me when I felt anxious.

That only temporarily kept my grinning friends at bay. Eventually, with a deep sigh, I looked up. Alan was hypnotically wiggling a little, white pill before my eyes; rubbing it between his thumb and index — enticingly, which was strange, as the tablet appeared no less ordinary than an aspirin. Than any white pill. Yet, it enchanted me. Saw me, though such a thing made no sense.

I groaned. “I’ve told you so many times, Alan. I’m not going to try ecstasy.”

He chuckled. “You’re so innocent, Macy. It’s not ecstasy. It’s emptanol.”

“Emptanol? That sounds made-up,” I said, though my gaze did not waver from the pill.

Alan shook his head and thrust the tablet into my palm. “It’s not.”

“Okay, what does it do?” I asked sceptically.

My friend smiled. “It gets rid of pain.”

And I replied, “I hate to tell you this, Alan, but your wonder pill has already been invented. I’ve got two boxes of paracetamol in the kitchen drawer, actually.”

“Not physically,” he said. “It ends mental pain. And you only need to take the one pill. Just one will change your life. Change your neurological makeup.”

“Well, that’s just science fiction,” I scoffed, twiddling the pill between my own fingers. “Even the best antidepressants in the world need to be taken every day. There is no ‘one-and-done’ fix.”

Alan shook his head, then nodded at the emptanol. “It’s here, Macy. The answer. No more depression, and none of the numbness that comes with Sertraline; this will make you happy.”

I sighed. “Look, I don’t know what black market drug you’ve actually bought, Alan, but I’m not taking it.”

He produced a second pill. “That’s why I’m going to take one first to put your mind at ease.”

“You’ve not even tried it?” I asked, hoisting my brows higher.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I told you, Macy: one pill. That’s all it takes to irreversibly alter your brain chemistry. I wanted to wait. Wanted to take the journey with you.”

“Just to let you know, I’m going to sit it out,” said the ever-reserved Nikita.

I frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because Keets isn’t depressed,” Alan replied, squeezing his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“Besides, I’m going to make us some food in a second,” Nikita added. “Proper food. Not the takeaways you’ve been eating all week, Macy.”

“I eat proper food…” I protested, folding my arms. “I just know what I like.”

“Well, today, I’m going to cook something that none of us have ever had before,” Nikita promised, before smiling. “But it’s a surprise. It’ll be a fun way to get out of your comfort zone.”

“We’re all getting out of our comfort zones tonight,” Alan whispered.

Then, without any warning, he gobbled down the emptanol.

“There,” my friend said, sticking out his tongue to show that he had, in fact, ingested the drug. “We’ll wait for it to work its magic, then you’ll take yours. Okay, Macy?”

“Do you even know what you’ve just taken?” I asked, once I’d picked up my jaw. “Is it safe?”

“Bit late to ask that now,” Alan said, checking his watch. “Anyway, I’m supposed to notice results within the first few minutes, but my brain will rewire fully over the course of the next twenty-four hours. The seller said it would feel like day pushing out the night.”

“Right. And how does one pill fundamentally change your mind?” I asked.

He groaned. “You remember Liam from school, don’t you? LSD broke his brain. This is just the other end of the spectrum; emptanol will fix our brains. I mean I…”

Alan trailed off and sat silently for a few moments. Then he tilted his head to eye the coffee table with great intrigue, sparking grins from Nikita and me.

“Has it hit, sweetie?” she asked her boyfriend.

Alan hummed curiously; coldly, like a machine processing code. “What are we having for dinner, Keets?”

She smirked. “That’s all you have to say? I was expecting some enlightened, philosophical statement. Maybe the drug needs a few more minutes to work its—”

“Have you ever thought about it?” he interrupted near-breathlessly, stuck on some new train of thought.

I grinned and asked, “Thought about what?”

“What it would be like?” Alan moaned, almost orgasmically, as he ran his fingers through Nikita’s hair.

“Careful! You’re going to mess it up,” she warned.

“See, I never thought about it before,” he continued, ignoring his girlfriend and bunching up a clump of her hair in his hand. “Nikita made an interesting point about leaving our comfort zones. Trying things we’ve never tried before. It’s given me an idea. An unorthodox one. And nothing matters now, Macy. Let me show you.”

Suddenly, like a dunking bird from an office desk, Nikita’s upper body was thrust into the glass table below and hoisted straight back up; only, rather than heat, it was Alan’s hand that fuelled the engine of his toy — his firm grip on her hair. The deranged man had slammed his girlfriend’s face into the coffee table, filling it with broken shards. Blood and wailing gushed from Nikita’s lips, but not a sound gushed from mine. I simply sank into the armchair.

Alan continued. He repeatedly dunked his plaything into the wooden frame — all that remained of the table — and lifted her into an upright post. Dunked, lifted, barely paused, then started again.

“STOP!” I screamed as the life flitted from Nikita’s rolling eyes; eyes stained with blood running from the glass protrusions in her skin.

Alan did stop, but only half a minute later; once he’d bludgeoned the girl he loved into a lifeless mess. The calm man rose to his feet, then rolled Nikita’s twitching body to the side with a large toe, dismissing her gurgling, fading pleas for help.

“I was demonstrating something,” he whispered. “Look at me, Macy. I’m fine. No pain. No sorrow. I feel light; content, unlike you on that medication. This is what Nikita and I wanted for you. Not to feel nothing, but to feel happy.”

And that was what made me scream. Alan, having done what he’d just done, wore a beaming smile on his face. I know I was afraid, though I’ve forgotten how that felt. I’m beginning to forget how anything dark felt, as dawn has nearly broken into day.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I remember screaming.

My face was coated in a film of tears and snot as Alan approached. I tried to escape, but he quickly hurled me back into the armchair and shushed me as I shrieked for salvation. My dear friend answered that cry for help by wrestling the emptanol out of my clenched palm and prying my lips apart.

“Come on, Macy. It’s time to wear your happy face. You’ll never feel terror like this again,” Alan cooed, thrusting the pill into the back of my throat, then shutting my lips as I gagged. “No, Macy. Swallow.”

I mumbled a sound of refusal, and Alan gently smiled. He was so joyous, and I understand why now. He was free.

“Swallow, or you’ll want to call the police. And then I’ll have to snap your neck,” he softly said, stroking my hair with his free hand.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a promise. Not a hint of venomous spittle projected from Alan’s soft lips. He simply wanted me to feel the same way as him, and I swallowed, of course, as I didn’t want to meet the same fate as Nikita.

Then came more than serotonin. More than the simplicity of chemistry. It was an awakening. A giddiness. It wasn’t like the antidepressants. It was just that everything was bright and colourful. Beautiful.

It is only now, close to twenty-four hours later, that I find myself asking questions. I know the emptanol has almost finished its work — remodelling my mind. But I feel an urge to post this. To reach out to all of you.

Did Alan do something wrong?

He says I shouldn’t even have questions anymore. Questions are doubts, doubts are worries, and worries should be purged by emptanol.

“The chemicals must be taking a little longer to fully mend you, Macy,” he explained at the kitchen table. “Perfectly natural. Admittedly, I was a little uncertain when I killed Nikita. But then I remembered why I’d decided to do it, and I felt tremendously excited. Bludgeoning her was no different than mashing potatoes for a Sunday roast.”

I nodded and smiled, then tucked into the meal.

“Long pig,” Alan said, placing the dish in front of me. “I’m positively thrilled to be trying it with you, Macy.”

He was right. Human meat is easier to appreciate, from a culinary standpoint, once you rid yourself of morality and, in my case, neurosis. I’ve never tasted a dish so succulent. Nikita was medium-rare; perfectly cooked.

Nevertheless, the drug hadn’t quite drowned all of my pain — still hasn’t, but it was worse last night. That’s why I’m posting this. Part of me, strange as it seems, remains fearful of emptanol, though I haven’t the foggiest clue as to why. After all, it’s cured my depression.

Nikita was a little fiddly to eat, as I still felt residual sadness, anger, and fear. As you might im…

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