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May 4, 2007
There was a day when she locked herself in the bathroom. We all knew it was trouble. I could hear her crying. She made no attempt to hide it. I can’t remember why we had a bottle of the stuff in the house. Probably from a time when she’d swallowed too many pills. Dad didn’t want to call the police. It was a small bottle, squared with a dark brown dropper cap. The liquid was clear, if I remember right. She’d shown it to me before, told me what it did, preparing me for the drama. She drank it all.