"What the fuck are you looking for here?" She asks herself viciously, pacing her bedroom, wearing down the carpet in a familiar circuit.
"Care? That doesn't come to you. It only leaves you in a torrent that rips you wide open," her eyes flick down to her palm, where the innocent white pill sits. The first of the kind of pill that is sure to be her last, should she swallow it now.
"Love?" She scoffs at this. "That doesn't exist for you, either."
So she sits and she stares. She stares at everything. Everything from the childish walls of her bedroom that she can never bear to repaint to the hairbrush she uses to fuck herself when she gets lonely.
Everything from the pill in her left hand to the phone in her right, where it sits with an empty inbox.
Everything from the windowseat where she hid her razor a year ago (and proudly never touched since) to the half-empty Vicodin bottle that sits on her desk.
Everything from the clock that reads 11:59 p.m. to the trembling in her arm as she raises the pill to her mouth, because she's run out of time.
The world stands still as the second hand ticks towards midnight and her eyes freeze in their darting to lock on the time.
The grandfather clock in the entryway booms its first chime. Her sleep-sound timer clicks off at its scheduled time. Her internet signal disappears, as is her mother's orders. Her heart drops as if it's the New Year's Eve Ball Drop.
Most importantly, she feels a rumble in her hand as her phone vibrates with the text she needs most.
She feels the pill pressed against her closed lips, her eyes flick to the message stating "1 New Message" in her hand. She falters between the two.
The grandfather clock finishes its chiming.