Race Against Time...

She climbs the stairs to the third floor, opens the door to her apartment, Number 34B.

It’s a small apartment, with a small living room barely lit with a single light globe hanging from the ceiling that flickers every few seconds. There is a faded pink couch in the middle of the room, sitting on a shaggy, whiskey stained rug. MTV statically enlightens a small coffee table, with three legs and covered with years of rolling stone magazine and half empty coffee mugs.

She drops her fake Gucci handbag on the couch as she walks past, like she does every other the day; Making her way into the lone bedroom in her apartment. The bedroom is darker than the living room with singe bed, covered in a cigarette burnt sheet, and makeup stained pillow and a woven woolen blanket. The bedside table sits under a busted reading lamp and a overflowing ashtray. Her clothes spread all over the floor from the weeks that have past, with no obvious order. Kicking off her smoky grey heels as she passes through the door, sliding down her little black dress to the floor, revealing her gorgeous pale white silky skin, her back covered in a diorama of black tattoos that resemble the memories of pain and suffering she has felt over time. A tattoo of stitching leads from her shoulders, down across her heart, past her small, but perfect breasts and perky pink nipples. Her thin, slender cold body and disappears into her red lace g-string. She reaches her freezing cold hands with black chipped, but shiny fingernails to open the door to her bathroom, which is small than most closets in any house. She stares at herself in the mirror, exposing dark fiery red lips, spiky piercing below her bottom lip to the left of centre. She reaches up to let her hair down; long jet black straight hair covers her shoulders, her fringe falls down over her neon blue eyes, surrounded by a thick black layer of eyeliner that has been slightly smudged throughout the day. As she stares into her own eyes, she bursts into tears. Running a river of black down her face; it seems to have become a daily ritual for her. Night after night she comes home and cries herself to sleep. You can see the faded scars on both her wrists from when the days have just been to much for her to handle; Today was one of those days. She reaches into the drawer and removes a clean silver razor blade, of which she has a collection. She removes the last of her clothing and turns on her dirty shower. Before stepping in, she picks up the phones and dials a three digit number… “911, what is your emergency?” a voice says.

“I’ve cut my wrists” says the girl “I’m bleeding”

She drops the phone and steps into the shower… crashing into a ball in the corner as she makes the incisions in her wrists… as the blood begins to flow from her veins into the shower then down the drain… she leans her head against the wall… pondering whether fate will take her from this life, or if the paramedics will reach her in time. She has left it up to god to decided her fate… it’s a race against time.