It seemed surreal when I first got the prescription. Having some means of battling my own body. Holding the hope of coming out ahead, hugging it lightly in my moist palm, as if grasping it fully might kill it.
I took them onto my tongue as a sacrament. A rite in which God is uniquely present. A visible sign of an invisible truth. An outward appearance of inward grace. The melting was bitter, biting. I washed it down with tap water and called it holy.
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