Never in my pathetic life did I imagine metaphysical shops would dominate the medicinal scene, let alone so soon, but CVS pharmacies are already being overthrown. Painted earthy tones. Stocked with incense bundles and crystal prescriptions. Tarot diagnoses now smother licensed doctors out of business. My insurance doesn’t even cover those blue and white delayed-release capsules that keep me afloat anymore. Full of artificial toxins, the media preaches. If I expect to be a functioning member of society, I may as well make the switch myself.
Which is how I find myself in Reverie Remedies, sandwiched between a Subway and a Great Clips. Diffusers hotbox the store with essential oil fumes. Rainbows of raw and tumbled crystals congest shelves that once displayed cough syrup and antacid tablets. I skip snorting the incense samples to claim a spot in line for assistance.
The woman behind the counter, name-tagged SERENITY, smells like a headache and has enough piercings through her face to set off the gate alarms. I catch myself staring at her septum ring designed to resemble a crescent moon. Gravity drags me toward her.
“Eyes up here, pal,” she says, swiping a sleeve across her nose. Spell broken.
Entering my information into the database, Serenity lists off every fucked-up diagnosis that conquers my ability to function. My cheeks flush. Glancing around the room, I half-expect some rando to pierce me with their eyes, but they’re all glued to the over-the-counter crystals. Infatuated with them. Rocks.
Back before I relied on traditional medicine—antidepressants, CBT, the usual—I actually made an effort to spend time outdoors. Touched grass. Soaked in sunrays. Hugged trees as recommended. Turns out, every molecule in nature operates at a vibrational frequency beneficial to those that share its company. No wonder wild animals rouse themselves every morning to eat, drink, and reproduce with little attention to existential matters. It’s all in the vibes.
Call me a pessimist, but part of me still believes there’s more to brain chemistry than the earth itself is able to handle. Otherwise, my body wouldn’t crave those capsules I’ve relied on for the past five years. But what do I know?
Serenity presents a vibrant recommendation of crystals I’m barely able to pronounce. Lepidolite to handle depression. Sodalite for emotional stability. Black tourmaline for protection. Carnelian for intimacy. Malachite for transformation.
I balance a Jolly-Rancher sized stone in my palm, studying its psychedelic bullseye patterning.
“So do I, like, tuck these under my pillow?” I ask. “Or keep them in my pocket? Y’know, like those Guatemalan worry dolls or whatever.”
Serenity peers over her glasses with an oh, that’s adorable smirk. With that mindset, she explains, I’ll never see any results. I’ll drain my pockets seeking the right crystal. A genius business tactic, admittedly, but not up to ethical standards.
She plucks a smooth tumble from the batch. Lifts it to her matte lips. Pretends to swallow. Slides the smallest one across the counter. Sodalite, she calls it. Blue and white. Just like my delayed-release capsules.
So I bring home an orange vial of crystals and contemplate my method of consumption. Do I down the largest pill in existence? Chomp down and risk its polished surface dislodging a molar? Those raw crystals at the shop reminded me of the artificial-flavored lollipops I cut my tongue on as a kid. They won’t taste as good, I guarantee that.
There’s truly no conventional way to go about this, so I swallow the crystal whole and chase it with a gulp of Mountain Dew—a brand natural in its name, if not its ingredients.
And I see something, alright. Maybe not the harmonic ailment-mending paradise society advertises. More so black speckles vignetting my vision. Tears of strain blurring the kitchen. I see the light.
The fucking crystal is lodged in the base of my throat.
Mountain Dew drools from the corners of my lips. I sputter, smacking a fist to my sternum with no result. My knees buckle. I sweep an arm across the dining room table, sending the remaining stones clattering across the tiles. Fumbling for my phone, I dial 911.
An automated voice answers. “For assistance with the root chakra, press one. For assistance with the sacral chakra, press two…”
Representative! Representative! Punching number nine puts me on hold. I’m met with a dissonance of Tibetan singing bowls.
I drop the phone and stagger outside, colliding with an elderly neighbor who may be the only one rational enough in this delusional world to perform the Heimlich. Once free of the obstruction, I’m dropped to the lawn where I touch grass. Soak in sunrays. Stretch toward the tree-like blob in my direct line of vision.
And I feel it now: an idle buzz twitching through my limbs. Maybe it’s the crystal’s properties seeping into my bloodstream. Maybe it’s the hum of natural frequencies surging through the roots. Maybe it’s my body’s rational withdrawal from traditional medicine.
Most likely, this is punishment for giving into Serenity.
Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Her work appears in HAD, trampset, Ghost Parachute, Exposed Bone, BRUISER, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
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