My teeth are stained green from the cold medicine that I drink. My mouth curls at the sickeningly sweet syrup, the caustic bite of the liquor, and then the more subtle strains of narcotic laced in this bright green concoction. Why do they make it so green, I wonder? I’ve also seen it come in bright blue. Perhaps so that once the narcotic starts to take affect, you peer at the bottle in the medicine chest, at its magical color, and you’re tempted to take another drink, as though sipping the sky.
My body has convinced itself that it needs medicine to be healthy. Or rather, the moment that my bloodstream has worked itself clean of any medicine, germs and viruses quickly descend and take over my body. And so I desperately tip back another shot of it, curl my mouth, wince with tears in my eyes, but instantly, beyond all physical possibility or reason, I experience relief pass through my gut to my limbs, my lungs, my mind. Everyone needs this, I think. A cure, a medicinal relief from that which ails us.
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