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[ a short Flash Fiction challenge piece for a creative writing group I belong to]

Blood, snot and tears dripped into the sink as she looked at herself in the spit-smattered mirrored door on the bathroom cabinet. Behind the door were solutions. Answers. Ways out. Razors, pills, potions. The old Radian-B, that must be poisonous, surely? Paracetamol? How many, though? And how quick? Would I look good with jaundice? Maybe he’d like me more? The bathroom door was locked, but his banging on it continued. And the shouting that she barely noticed any more. She reached for the cabinet handle, knowing she had to choose. A quick but messy exit? Or a slow, miserable, lingering decay until the inevitable escape into death? She chose the latter, as usual. Dabbing her broken nose, and applying another layer of make-up, she smiled grimly at herself in the mirrored door, left it closed, and turned. ‘Coming, dear,’ she called. ‘I’ll fetch you another vodka, shall I? That usually makes you feel better.’

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