Her lips wrap around another cigarette and she slowly takes a breath in, closing her eyes as the tobacco burns her lungs. Hold for two. Blow out. Just like in yoga. Although her life is far from the life of yoga and Starbucks anymore. Far from the vegetarian diet and the all-organic foods just to be able to brag in front of her snooty friends. No, she's left that world for good. She throws the cigarette to the ground and expertly crushes it with her heel, reaching for her keys and trying to stop the shaking long enough to unlock the door.


As the door swings open the strong scent of stale cigarettes and tequila wafts towards her and her stomach turns. She drops her bag and slams the door behind her, making sure the lock is clicked into place, before running to the bathroom. Florescent lights flicker on and she leans against the tile wall, the cool surface settling her nerves only slightly. Off come the obnoxiously high heels. Her feet scream in pain as they stand flat on the floor for the first time in hours. She reaches for a paper towel and sits on the floor, refusing to look herself in the mirror.


She first swipes against her lips, a smear of red staining the white paper towel. Next is her cheeks and forehead and eyebrows, followed by the pitch black streaks of eyeliner thickly outlining her deep blue eyes. Once she's done, several soiled towels all ranging different colors lie crumpled on the floor. The pins in her hair dig into her skull and she reaches up but is unable to grip the pins. She looks down and cusses at her shaking hands. Slowly but surely, each pin comes out. Her hair falls in greasy auburn ringlets to her shoulders. The floor is so cold.


Her bare legs stretch out across the tiny bathroom floor, skirt hiked up to her waist, hands still shaking. The pain in her chest is worse than it was before. Taking a breath is like hard labor now. This is her punishment for disobeying. For withholding money. One week without her addiction. Her medication. It's only been three days so far.


A loud knock comes from the door. It's assertive. It's sharp. It's a warning. She picks herself up off of the floor and checks herself in the mirror. Hair a mess, smeared black circles around her eyes, and thin, pale skin everywhere else. Her lips are wildly chapped as well. She shuts off all of the lights before opening the door. His broad figure looms in the doorway wordlessly, dark eyes staring at her. No doubt examining her condition. A smirk creeps onto his lips and, satisfied, he pushes his way into the apartment and seats himself on the single chair she has for furniture in the “living room”. Words aren't necessary. He holds his hand out and she grabs her bag, handing him a stack of bills. She watches as he sits and counts every last one before putting them into his pocket. The fact that he hasn't stood up yet to leave sets her heart pumping quickly. The pain is so great that she wants to just drop to the floor and scream but she dare not. She dare not even slouch. So she stares at him and watches him drum his fingers on his left knee. One. Two. Three. One. Two. One, two, three. One, two. One, two. One, two....three.


Before she can react he's up and, as expected, there's a knife to her throat. She's too dehydrated to cry and too terrified to speak. He whispers foul names into her ear, telling her what she's done and what she is. Reminding her of the choices that plague her nightmares every time she's actually able to relax enough to sleep. Without a fuss or a monologue or even a real reason why, he brings the knife clean across her throat and she falls with a thud to the floor...and he leaves, because the job is done.


At this point it doesn't matter what her name is or how old she is or what she did to get into this position. It doesn't matter what her past story is or who she left behind. The girl lying dead on the floor isn't the girl who went missing all those years ago. She died at the funeral where an empty casket was placed in the ground. The girl on the floor is the girl whose beginning was as the end of the previous girl. This is the girl who took $200 dollars out of the money she was supposed to give and threw it away because she knew what the boss would do once he found out. So she smoked her last cigarette outside the door and made a promise that, for once, she knew she'd be able to keep. She promised never to smoke again. She took off all of her makeup...all of her mask. Took down her hair. She wanted to leave this world clean so that when the police found her body they wouldn't scoff at just another dead hooker. Maybe they would be able to see the girl she used to be if they looked hard enough. The heroine had aged her. No one would really guess that she wasn't old enough to be out of high school but maybe, just maybe, they'd remember the Amber Alert from 3 years ago and compare her face. Call her parents and dig up the casket so they could bury it full this time. That was her dying wish.


Two hours later another man came though the door to finish the job. He bleached the area and threw her body into a canal. The rushing water took care of the rest. The police never did find her. All the while, somewhere in Kansas, a casket lay underground. Empty and taking up space because that smiling girl whose name and picture lay six feet above it on a plaque, the girl who belonged inside that casket, ended long before she died.