My ceiling grew antlers, and I can’t look away. The mattress below me is subsumed with vines, thick and knotted, wrapped delicately around my wrists while a velvet pillowcase cradles my head. I fall asleep staring at antlers and the air vent with no will to move. I wake to soft blue light, the sun teasing its approach, and reach for the orange pill bottle on my nightstand. I swallow the capsule with cold tap water, cooling my throat and stomach as it goes down. The antlers are gone from my ceiling today, and I walk out of the house into the morning.
Evan St. Jones (they/them) is a weird fiction writer from northwest Louisiana. They write about cosmic horror, gender, and mental illness. They are a co-founder of the LGBTQ+ arts organization, QUEERPORT, and their day job is working for the local HIV/AIDs resource center. They live with their three-legged bichon, Princess, and their partner in Shreveport.
Serotonin 