They didn’t call her. The bandages for the tattoo were ready to be removed. She had always loved tattoos, they marked her for who she was, but that was no longer the case. This tattoo branded her. It hurt more than all the others, mostly because she hadn’t chosen it. It didn’t even choose her. It didn’t make her special. But she had known she wasn’t special for a while now. How could she be. She had ended up here.
She didn’t have a name anymore, she was who they told her to be. She didn’t leave a note of goodbye, no one would notice. But who she once was, wasn’t important now.
It was almost the end of the month. She didn’t know if she was ok with any of it. She just didn’t want all this time to think. The more she thought about it, the deeper the nausea set in. She had already been sick twice today. She wanted to eat but didn’t. Her phone hadn’t left her hand for a second. There were only six days left. 144 hours.
The blood washed out easier than expected. They had slit their throat. It wasn’t me, that’s what she thought over and over, it steadied her pulse, it’s what allowed her to finally eat a sandwich.
She sat in a shoe box apartment.
Phone in one hand, knife in the other.
It was too late to turn her life around now, but she knew that was impossible, ever since the tattoo.