There was a girl that I used to work with at the Goodwill who had eyes that were far too close together. Her body was pale and soft, but not a way that is sweet and makes me want to bullshit about marshmallow metaphors. Everything about her drove me to edge. Especially when she talked about her brother and how much they hated each other. I hated him, in my mind, just as much as I hated her.

On most days, she would rub her wrist in pain. The first time I ever asked about it was a mistake. She told me that when she was fifteen she had chased her brother around the house because of something stupid that he had done. Eventually when she thought she had cornered him, she had run at him with a fist, and when he moved she flew full force into the glass window behind him, shattering it, and cutting open her wrist. Tiny shards of glass fell into her wound and because of the delicate placement of these shards, could never be removed. (I don't really understand this.) Instead, most days she had pain because these tiny bits were working their way to the surface of her skin.

This was also one of the reasons she couldn't take advil.

After the incident, she started to become addicted to advil. She took two or three at a time at first, and then built on it every time she felt the pain. Eventually she was taking thirty advil at a time. And now, as an adult, she couldn't take advil for a headache or menstrual cramps because they would do nothing for her.

I don't know how she isn't dying of stomach cancer. It's a shame, really.