“Don’t do it,” Mansour’s death pill implored.
“Shut up.” Turning on the hot and cold bath faucets, he felt the suicide tablet judging him as he filled a glass at the sink. Apparently, someone had had the immensely stupid and patronizing idea of imbuing the pill with a basic counseling AI. It had started chatting as soon as he had unwrapped it.
Steam from the bath blurred the mirror, and that suited him just fine. He was in no mood to look at his pale, drawn face. He wanted to lower himself gently into the scented water and sink into oblivion. Never having to face another empty, dreary day. Never again having to suffer the alternating bouts of soul-destroying boredom, despondency, and mind-numbing grief that had colored the past months in shades of black and gray.
Now this.
