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5:59. Finally. She lies, waiting, waiting. For the last minute to pass by. She counts under her breath, careful not to disturb the stale air in her empty apartment. The alarm sounds… waiting, she listens to its tone pitch higher. Until she slams down her hand, jarring the clock two minutes into the future.
Water running over her back, feel it soak into her hair. Coloring the soft brown, black. Stand under the stream until it runs cooled. Watches bumps line her legs, arms, and the flat of her stomach. Run her index finger over the line of scar on the bone of her hip, jutting as she stands drying her hair. Just another scar. Another mistake.
Flat iron through her hair, coloring the nape of her neck rose with heat. Pausing in the back, she leaves one curl intact.
Pulls into a shirt, steps up into a skirt then heels.
One final glance in the mirror. The words peek out that were inked in years before. Sighs, and skips the band aid required by her employer for the day. It’s just another scar. Another mistake. Recognition, and she puts on her ring. It feels tight after years of under use. But still, it covers the tan line of white, still ghostly.
In the car, kicking quick trip coffee cups out of the way (stained red on the edge from lipstick) she pauses to not buckle up, drives 5 miles above the speed limit and unlocks the door while riding by the homeless. At a stop sign, she watches one man walk by, look in, and see her.
Hitting the gas doesn’t calm her heart, at the acknowledgement of her very existence.
Stepping out into the stifling humanity, Chicago citizens push by. Car parked in front of her meter, she steps away without paying her 9 hours of time, walks down the row feeding every other meter quarters.
The familiar sounds of her own step inconsistency jar her in he walk. Looking down, she watches her pedicure step through a puddle. Take the stairs down to the top floor. Pause under the skylight. Watch dimples in the glass, caused by a new spring rain.
In her office, she walks to her desk, depositing her purse in the bottom drawer. Reach blindly in and search for the blade. Feel slick metal, cool with confirmation. A sharp intake of breath as she withdraws her hand and nicks her finger on a paper. Tears push against her eyes as she steps towards her window, one finger pressed against her lips. Slowly the pain recedes, and she watches the wound seal closed.
Lock her legs. One last breath as she views the morning sky. And there it appears the first swell on her arm. One line, in the crook. In hypersensitivity, she feels every other scar on her body. The ones that line her arms legs, and stomach. Even nicks on her heels from a quick morning shave.
This is finality.
Slowly working down her arm, she watches she blade enter. Only pain evident is the dull aftersting from the paper cut on her finger.
Let go. Watching her own life drop from her hands, as the blade fall to carpet.
Out falls her life. Everything that went wrong. How she forgot everything thing that went right
Trees at midnight, thunderstorms. Sunflowers pressed against her lips, and a hand to hold. Eyes that are not your own, and the reflection of you in them.
Finally she grows too weak, and pitches forward, knees locked, out through her glass panes. She falls faster then her own blood. She falls through the rain. Through the sky.
Lands on the sidewalk. Alley empty.
Man walks up, a quickening in his throat at her sight. Gathers broken feathers into his arms. Watches her eyes blur, as rain gathers in the open lids. He breathes life onto her. Wishing she didn’t die on the streets. Glad she isn’t alone. She looks past him. Through him.
And he listens as she speaks.
“ You know they are wrong,” Lips reddened, now drained pale white. Leans into her last words “ the sky isn’t blue”