You decide to bake it into brownies as if it was weed. You think about how much harder it was to get than weed is, and about how it will be the perfect dessert to top off your last meal. Brownies always were your favorite, after all. Ever since your aunt Patty had made you a batch for your fifth birthday, the kind with chunks of semi-sweet chocolate in them and a chocolate buttercream frosting swirled on top, you have been in love with the decadent treat.

You start mixing the ingredients together, stirring everything by hand with a whisk because you know that if you use an electric mixer the brownies will become tough. After all, you want the last thing you ever eat to be perfect. You laugh to yourself as you start to sprinkle it in. You think about how this really will bring new meaning to the phrase "death by chocolate."

Baking always was a comfort to you. That and self-harm were the only ways you ever felt like you had any control over anything. When you baked, you could manipulate everything about your creation. You could change the taste, the texture, the smell, and so much else with just a flick of the wrist or the addition of a little more or less of an ingredient.

When you self-harmed, you finally felt in control of yourself for a change. You were able to control how you felt, even if what you felt was pain, and you were able to manipulate your own body and decide what happens to it. Now you're preparing to combine the two, to take total control back from your AWOL mind once and for all.

You remember the first time you felt like you weren't in control of yourself. You just couldn't stop shaking, no matter how hard you tried. Your hands were rattles and your arms were snakes, begging to be skinned. They tried to give you medicine to fix it, but it seemed more like poison to you. It made you tired all the time, made you stay in bed even more than you already did. It didn't help, either. You seemed to have all the side effects and none of the relief that was supposed to come with them.

They tried having you talk to someone. He didn't seem to tell you anything you didn't already know, though. He mostly just sat there, shook his head, said "mhm" a few times, and occasionally repeated back what you had just said in an affirming tone. He didn't actually help at all despite the astronomical amount you were paying out of pocket to see him because, of course, he didn't accept insurance.

Nobody left seems like they would miss you and you have nowhere else to turn. Your family members don't even call anymore and always seem too busy to talk. So you eventually come up with this plan. Now, nearly a month later, you sit on the floor of your apartment finishing the last bite of your dinner. You sigh as you look around your apartment one last time, taking in all the family photos and old fake smiles you wore in them. Cutting yourself a brownie, you close your eyes and stuff the entire awkwardly cut square into your mouth.

It bursts with flavor. Before long, you can feel your mouth starting to water for more. Or maybe that's just the foaming. Either way, your eyes roll back in pure ecstasy as it hits your stomach. It sends chills, shakes, convulsions through your body as a smile forms across your face.

You did it. You finally took back control. You finally feel free from the confines of your sickened mind. Then, nothing.