It's a little past four in the morning, and she's holding the phone to her ear, wishing it would ring. It doesn't. There's no one to call her. The dark sky has turned grey; it's just before the sunlight will begin to paint its streaks of yellow and pink upon its canvas. She wishes it would rain, at least just for her. She can't make herself cry. It reminds her too much of her mother.
Her mother's face was always streaked with tears, pills strewn across the floor. She would have to pick her up off of the floor and carry her back to her bed, where she would hide out for days. It was years later, and now she was the one who was hiding. She was being eaten alive by the chemicals in her brain.
"Do not give up."
"Do not give up."
That was what they all told her.
"It's not that easy," she'd written, her fingers shaking as the pen swept across the blank page. She let go of the phone and sat down on the carpet, looking up out of the window at the buildings and the streetlights that had once filled her empty eyes with hope. Her gaze fell to once beige carpet, now stained red. She sat there, holding up her head, wondering if she would see the sun one last time, or if it would be too late by then.
She sat there and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
