I opened the pamphlet.
Read the instructions.
Step 1: Wash your hands.
Step 2: Clean injection site with alcohol wipe.
Step 3: Pinch skin and insert needle at 90-degree angle.
Step 4: Inject medication slowly.
Step 5: Remove needle and apply pressure.
I read it three times.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror.
My reflection stared back—tired, scared, broke, and desperate.
“I can do this,” I whispered.
My voice sounded small in the empty bathroom.
“I can do this.”
I thought about the $50,000 in my account.
About Mama’s house.
About Phillip’s face when he realized I didn’t need him anymore.
About escape.
I picked up the syringe.
Held it in my hand.
Felt the weight of it.
“I can do this.”
I put the kit back in the bag.
Unlocked the door.
Walked out.
And I didn’t look back.
Day three.
I sat on the edge of my bed at 10:47 PM, staring at my thigh.
The injection site was swollen. Red. Hot to the touch.
It didn’t look like this yesterday.
Yesterday, it was just a small pink dot where the needle went in—tender but manageable. Today it was the size of a quarter, raised and angry, radiating heat through the thin cotton of my pajama shorts.
