He was perfectly happy. He was perfect. He was happy. He was perfectly happy. He has been perfectly happy since he got them. He wasn’t always happy, of course. He was quite sad, at some point. He wasn’t sure when. He wasn’t sure just how sad he was. He was just… sad. He didn’t try to remember those times. They were so muddled. Like trying to stare into his memories through dirty pond. He was thinking about how happy he was, that day. He came home and kissed his mom on the cheek. She was also perfectly happy. He pat his dad on the shoulder, who was also perfectly happy. He hugged his little sister, who was too young to be perfectly happy, but she would be soon. He went to his room and did his homework. After a while his mom said, “son, are you done with your homework?” Which he truthfully responded with a yes. And she said “come out to the living room, we’re playing monopoly.” He wasn’t supposed to be alone for too long. He was special. In fact, he had to take an extra one, more dosages than the rest of his family. He was too sad before the happy pills. He was angry. His mother shudders to think about it. He often screamed, and cried. His mother distinctly remembered him screaming, “It’s you! It’s those pills! Can’t you see?! YOURE BEING BLINDED. THEYRE MAKING YOU SICK. YOU’RE NOT ACTUALLY HAPPY.” They sent him away to the hospital for a while, he was ill. He always said something about sadness, being blinded. He told his psychiatrist. “Don’t you see, you’re all blind. You’re all crazy. It’s those pills. You think you’re happy but you’re not. Why do you even need pills to be happy? Why do they force you to take those pills?” It has gotten bad. His perfectly happy psychiatrist was trying to help, if he kept this up, he would die, surely. They’d kill him. His perfectly happy psychiatrist pitied him. Once, he was sitting there talking. His psychiatrist had had it. “Your time is up kid, you take those pills. You’re not a child anymore. You take those pills. Things could go wrong, they could go very very wrong. You take those pills. You take them.” The psychiatrist’s head started to hurt immensely, as he thought about what would happen. When he questioned why it should be happening. He didn’t like it. He took a lot of happy pills that night. And he became perfectly happy the next day. They forced the pills into his food. He became perfectly happy too. As all people should be. He thought he was being silly before and profoundly apologized for all the problems. His perfectly happy psychiatrists smiled at him, and told him he didn’t have to come back. The memory came to him, of one of the secessions he’d had. A cold tear ran down his cheek, and an unknown emotions in his chest. He didn’t like it. He shook his head, And took 5 happy pills. He smiled, and joined his perfectly happy family.