Information: Dark Matter Volume 1

Chapter 5

November 17th. Home from prison. First snow and nasty cold. Standing on the street in Waterloo outside the family home. Looking around, seeing nothing. And inside her head the darkness was waiting. She had pills and a bottle of Rum. She could feel the bottle of pills in her pocket, almost buzzing at her to take them. It hadn't been hard to get the prescription. She even told the doctor the type she wanted. That was the advantage of having a family doctor who trusted her. Stupid. She started walking, headed into the cold—headed nowhere.

Her phone buzzed. A blank screen. No one got a blank screen. Had someone hacked her phone? Then a message: We understand. We can help.

Fuck. Who could understand what she was going through? And who the fuck were they? How did they get into her phone?

The choice is yours.

Well, that was nice of them. She still had choice. Of course she did. That's what she planned. A choice. A final choice. Nice and quiet, and that's all folks. Like anyone cared. She kept walking, the cold biting into her face. She took out the rum and took a swig. It burned some going down, but she could feel the warmth move through her. She fingered the bottle of pills.

She looked at her phone. There was nothing more on the screen. She kept walking, looking for a place where she could sit. Maybe get out of the breeze a little. Shit, it was cold. By chance, or by instinct, she found herself headed to the park by the river. Fuck! What a desolate day. A couple of small snowflakes drifted past. She took another swig. Looked at her screen again. Nothing. Fuckers.

A park bench sat next to the path. Way off the street. It looked as cold and lonely as she felt. From it she could view a bend in the river. She sat. No one would find her here. Not till it was over. Some winter jogger maybe. Someone out walking their dog. She felt sorry for the dog.

She looked out. Grand River. Sucks. Not grand at all. What a stupid name. Stolen land. All set aside for First Nations. Like, who gives a fuck. They get a monument, but we keep the land. Another swig.

She waved the bottle. She could tell anyone the history of this river: Four hundred years of settlers. Who were the tribes that settled here? Shit, she'd forgotten. Twelve years of local Catholic school. St. Luke's and then St. David's. How could she forget the history? Anyway, who gave a shit? It was just a paranoid world of vicious dictators, taking, taking, taking. Memory fragment: Joseph Brant, he owned slaves. She'd written a paper on him in grade 12. They'd named a town after him. Mighty Mohawk warrior on the side of the British. Sold out to them later—no one wanted to know he'd kept slaves. Injustice from the beginning of this place. And no hope. Another swig. Sitting, she was feeling the buzz now, and she could relax into it. Fuckers.

In one hand she held the phone. In the other the bottle. She stared at the water, slowly moving past, no real current visible here. Just a turgid brown ooze. She took another drink, a long one. This felt right. Warm and loose. She watched the river. More tiny snowflakes drifted down past the leafless trees.

She stared at the screen. Come on bastards. Say something! Who were they? What did they offer anyway?

She keyed, ?

She pulled out the little bottle of pills. Enough there to end it. And if not that, add the booze and the cold—she would be gone. She'd never feel it. It could even be nice. She watched the tiny snowflakes drift down. It was like the curtain of the universe was coming down. She popped the cap and stared at the pills nestled there. So innocent, those pills. So beautiful in the quiet. The offer of a dream. A snowflake drifted into the bottle, melting in the warmth of the pills.

She fumbled a pill out, spilling it onto the ground. She could see it sitting there in the leaves and the snow, but it seemed so far away. So hard to reach. She reached for another, working slowly and carefully not to drop it. She managed to get it to her lips. Washed it back with a swig of rum.