Her parents left, exhorting her to close and lock the door carefully.
At 6 am, she could usually barely remember her own name. Today, she was wide awake.
She now had two whole days.
She went back to bed, re-reading her favourite book set in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. At eight thirty, she rose once again. Breakfast beckoned. Drizzling the slightly stale slices of bread with butter, she toasted them till they were crisp and slathered on a further wash of butter. Coffee and toast in hand, she went back to the Discworld.
She cooked, made pasta, drizzled cheese over the tender broccoli florets, lazed over the paper. In the afternoon she went to her friend’s house, spending three hours there playing peekaboo with the friends eight month old baby.
Dinner was thin crust pizza, “Italian” apparently. Since Italy was an impossible dream, this was close enough.
Seguing back to the Discworld, she dropped off.
The next morning, she awoke. Picked up the knife she’d sharpened the day before. And with just the slightest trepidation, cut through the delicate skin at her wrists. Again and again. Till she could see the pulpy flesh underneath, the blood running down her arms.
In the corner of the bathroom she’d cleaned and dried carefully, she sat down, wincing at the burning pain in her wrists. Picking up her book, she started to read again. A hundred and fifty pages till the end. She smiled.