She looked one last time at the yellow slip of paper and stuffed it in her pocket.
She felt a tickle on her wrist. Her coat left a smear on the railing, moisture seeping through polyester lining and fake wool. The subway was half-full, her arms hurt, her knees were a little weak. It was time.
She stood, pushed her sleeves up. The woman next to her gasped. She wiped her wrist on the pole in front of her.
They had not seen her pain in wet beds after her Daddy’s late-night visits started, now the rest of the world would see.
She turned, wiped one wrist on the back of the bench, one on the woman. She heard sounds, words, she paid them no mind. She was painting with her pain.
They had not seen it in the foul ink she scarred herself with. Royal Bitch, it said. Daddy’s Angel, it said.
When her pain began to dry, she cut some more.
They hadn’t seen it when she flunked out of college.
They hadn’t seen it in her alcohol fumed late punch ins. Maybe they could see it now, in blazing red.
She turned and wiped it on the doors, color wept down them.
Finally her knees gave way. She fell to her side, looked and waited. Red was everywhere, she had told them. At last she had told them.
But the car was empty now, they had not seen her pain after all. She closed her eyes.