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Description

The second hand twitches forward and jerks into position, as if contemplating its position before darting forth and crawling around the watch strapped loosely to her arm.
Thirty-one.
Maybe - she will wait -
Thirty.
Straining her ears for the faintest sounds of footsteps outside the door, even the muffled noise of a door shutting against the soft carpet, she turns her head to the left. She presses her cheek to the cool, almost-soothing tiles and looks, towards the sinks, towards the mirrors mirroring her deadened expression.
Twenty-nine.
This isn't the kind of accident where sirens sound, she thinks quietly. Even inside herself the voices have all quieted, and they almost echo out of her mouth - would it matter if she said them out loud? Would anyone hear?
Twenty-eight.
She furrows her brow - surely she promised? Or will she lie here on the floor in a pitiful mess until the end? It's not hard to imagine. She can picture it now, in the utter silence of her mind, disturbed only by the dripping of the lone faucet still not shut off on the far end of the filthy counter.
Twenty-six.
If she tried - to live - on the other side? If she could start over?
Twenty-five.
If she could lose herself - but what was it she could lose?
Twenty-four.
The second seems to blur as she digs through her bag, hands stumbling over each other in her haste, until they finally reach that which they seek. A smooth orange bottle, filled with tiny red pills, filling her with no doubt.
Twenty-three.
It is the only thing really keeping her from being real. She is a figment of whatever she wants to be, and - it is - the tiny bottle - clutched in her hand - ?
Twenty-two.
Another anxious glance at the walls - there is no one. The silence fills her with something that stings like salt water in the wound that she is. It's - it can't be -
Twenty-one.
There is no regret in the silence of the door.
Twenty.
She looks back in the mirror, trying to find the guilt in the same lines of her face, the curve of her mouth, the look in her eyes through the glass, and there is nothing.
Nineteen.
The seconds are so slow, so slow, so loud in the silence, and she wonders how no one can tell. The breaths swirling out are light and shaky, as her muscles spasm in anticipation.
Eighteen.
If - if- if - the if returns to writhe its way into the silence, carving near-visible trails in the cool, clammy air of the bathroom. She inhales deeply through her nose, holding the breath deeps inside of herself before letting it go.
Seventeen.
The seconds seem harder to count, as if prematurely escaping her before they leave here. The colors are so vivid against her eyes and she can almost swear the rushing of the air vent is louder than anything in this world she's carved out.
Sixteen.
The pills rattle around the bottom of their prison, as if clamoring to be given out, into another, far more alive -
Fifteen.
She busies herself with opening the child-proof cap.
Fourteen.
The white plastic arrow meets its duplicate and she pushes with her thumb in a swift, decisive movement.
Thirteen.
She doesn't bother with the routine of forgiveness, and leaves the mental prayer at her feet with the lid clattering at her heels like an overeager, loyal animal begging -
Twelve.
Begging for what? Like she has - like she always has -
Eleven.
The tears finally begin to threaten, but she blinks them down her face and clears her eyes to raise the bottle to her eyes, letting the salt water run down her cheeks.
Ten.
The t-tick of the second hand now so close to her ear pounds with her suddenly frantic heart.
Nine.
If she would come -
Eight.
If anyone - who - who cared -
Seven.
She shakes the pills into her left hand and waits.
Six.
She casts a meaningful glance at the door.
Five.
Her gaze falls, as if what it held was too heavy to lift once more.
Four.
She looks around the room once more, eyes glazed with a film of tears encapsulating nothing.
Three.
She lifts her hand to her mouth.
Two.
Looking around the room, she waits -
One.
The second hand hits its mark.
She swallows.

Description

The second hand twitches forward and jerks into position, as if contemplating its position before darting forth and crawling around the watch strapped loosely to her arm.
Thirty-one.
Maybe - she will wait -
Thirty.
Straining her ears for the faintest sounds of footsteps outside the door, even the muffled noise of a door shutting against the soft carpet, she turns her head to the left. She presses her cheek to the cool, almost-soothing tiles and looks, towards the sinks, towards the mirrors mirroring her deadened expression.
Twenty-nine.
This isn't the kind of accident where sirens sound, she thinks quietly. Even inside herself the voices have all quieted, and they almost echo out of her mouth - would it matter if she said them out loud? Would anyone hear?
Twenty-eight.
She furrows her brow - surely she promised? Or will she lie here on the floor in a pitiful mess until the end? It's not hard to imagine. She can picture it now, in the utter silence of her mind, disturbed only by the dripping of the lone faucet still not shut off on the far end of the filthy counter.
Twenty-six.
If she tried - to live - on the other side? If she could start over?
Twenty-five.
If she could lose herself - but what was it she could lose?
Twenty-four.
The second seems to blur as she digs through her bag, hands stumbling over each other in her haste, until they finally reach that which they seek. A smooth orange bottle, filled with tiny red pills, filling her with no doubt.
Twenty-three.
It is the only thing really keeping her from being real. She is a figment of whatever she wants to be, and - it is - the tiny bottle - clutched in her hand - ?
Twenty-two.
Another anxious glance at the walls - there is no one. The silence fills her with something that stings like salt water in the wound that she is. It's - it can't be -
Twenty-one.
There is no regret in the silence of the door.
Twenty.
She looks back in the mirror, trying to find the guilt in the same lines of her face, the curve of her mouth, the look in her eyes through the glass, and there is nothing.
Nineteen.
The seconds are so slow, so slow, so loud in the silence, and she wonders how no one can tell. The breaths swirling out are light and shaky, as her muscles spasm in anticipation.
Eighteen.
If - if- if - the if returns to writhe its way into the silence, carving near-visible trails in the cool, clammy air of the bathroom. She inhales deeply through her nose, holding the breath deeps inside of herself before letting it go.
Seventeen.
The seconds seem harder to count, as if prematurely escaping her before they leave here. The colors are so vivid against her eyes and she can almost swear the rushing of the air vent is louder than anything in this world she's carved out.
Sixteen.
The pills rattle around the bottom of their prison, as if clamoring to be given out, into another, far more alive -
Fifteen.
She busies herself with opening the child-proof cap.
Fourteen.
The white plastic arrow meets its duplicate and she pushes with her thumb in a swift, decisive movement.
Thirteen.
She doesn't bother with the routine of forgiveness, and leaves the mental prayer at her feet with the lid clattering at her heels like an overeager, loyal animal begging -
Twelve.
Begging for what? Like she has - like she always has -
Eleven.
The tears finally begin to threaten, but she blinks them down her face and clears her eyes to raise the bottle to her eyes, letting the salt water run down her cheeks.
Ten.
The t-tick of the second hand now so close to her ear pounds with her suddenly frantic heart.
Nine.
If she would come -
Eight.
If anyone - who - who cared -
Seven.
She shakes the pills into her left hand and waits.
Six.
She casts a meaningful glance at the door.
Five.
Her gaze falls, as if what it held was too heavy to lift once more.
Four.
She looks around the room once more, eyes glazed with a film of tears encapsulating nothing.
Three.
She lifts her hand to her mouth.
Two.
Looking around the room, she waits -
One.
The second hand hits its mark.
She swallows.