ɪɴᴜʀᴇ [ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ]

ᴠ. ᴍᴀᴊᴏʀ ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴀ ɪx

ᴜᴘʀɪɢʜᴛ

Hermit sat upright. She looked at the eerie clock on the wall, optimistic that her time was
        Unlimited: if she could dream, she could live a while longer.

Bruises from needles painted her forearms, stitches drawn across her stomach - she had put on a little weight.

Sleep was occasionally interrupted by stranger's devices, squeezing her upper arm, then their pen
        scribbling against rough paper.

She wanted to go home.

Hermit scavanged in the cupboard, in a rush, relieved as she pulls out
        an address book; she looked at her phone.
This call was urgent to make.

ʀᴇᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ

I lay down. I hung my head low like the photo of Hermit in my possession, aware that my time was
        Limited: if I could sleep, I could avoid tomorrow.

Swatches of black ink painted my forearms, bandages wrapped against the missing flesh - I had lost too much weight.

Sleep was always interrupted by coughing fits, returning dozens of pills to my palm, their shells
        announcing another failure.

I wanted to escape from home.

I strained for the rope I fastened overhead, unfazed, adjusting my throat
        to the noose; I refrained from looking at my phone.
But that call saved my life.