Staring down at the crimson and brown stained junk mail envelope, it was hard to believe she had actually written those words last night. What was she thinking? What was she actually thinking? Clarity and enlightenment as to the meaning of this personal journey into the ghettos of her inner psyche was definitely not happening right now. She took the time to write it down. Why?

Her head was pounding and her finger was scabbed. The blood on her hand was as sticky as the blood on the envelope. She held her finger to the blood stain. A match. And her lip. Why was her lip so swollen and throbbing?

“What time is it?” she yelled out to whoever might be around. How long had she been out?

Going out last night with Melissa and her husband. Was there anyone else? Did anyone come back with them? No. They left so abruptly. Oh it’s coming back now. Did she write it before they rushed out of the club, warehouse or whatever it was? She was so embarrassed. The scene she made. It was all coming back.

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