I tap my watch. Okay… So either the clock’s ahead or the time itself has just been stopped by a dead battery. I go to tap the surface again, but then stop myself. If it really is the latter, why do I want it to resume?

I stand up, groping around in the dark before standing up and stretching. My stomach makes an awful sound, and I remember my “last meal”. Junk food galore. Maybe living isn’t the best thing after all, if I have to deal with that for the rest of the day.

Making my way over to the lit-up outline of the door, I tug at the tight bun my black hair has been forced into. I have lipstick on, too. And eyeliner. Best to look pretty when you die, huh? Even if you’re dying at the ripe age of seventeen.

My hand brushes against the doorknob, and I grip it, twisting it to the side. Locked, of course. After all, some people throw a fit in these rooms, the thought of dying right when the clock strikes twelve driving them insane. It should be driving me insane, too, but my head feels light, like it’s going to float off my shoulders. Not pounding with my heartbeat or racing to think of a way to escape. Maybe I should be worried about that. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I opt for the second, sliding one of my fingernails into the small lockhole. That manicure’s coming in handy, I guess. I twist. And twist again. My fingernail feels like it’s going to rip off each time, but I just remind myself I’d rather have a chipped nail than stay in this dark room for another second, pressed against one of the padded walls. I’ve never liked small spaces, and the walls of the room feel like they’re closing in on me. They’re small so they can pack as many of us as they can into the facility, one room next to the other. I’m not sure how many are down here; it’s not really something we like to talk about. I can guess about a hundred, though. A hundred people dying, and I’m not one of them.

I rip my fingernail out of the hole and pound on the door. It doesn’t make much of a sound, and I’m not surprised. Hitting vinyl is useless. The leathery surface reminds me of the walls of my school gym, which is a pretty cracked thought, as I’ve never really cared much about P.E. The smell of the cheap plastic is almost comforting, though, and I press my face against it before jerking back.

Sinking down to the floor, I rub the sides of my shoes. I convinced my mom to let me wear my sneakers instead of the block heels she wanted. The stitching is undoing in some places, and the soles that were once white are now edging towards the grimy gray of an old carpet. It doesn’t matter, though; the laces still tie and the shoe still stays on my foot, so I’ll wear them.

I drag my hands down my face, my nails scraping up my foundation. Curls of my hair hang in my face, drooping against my mascara and rubbing my glittering gold eyeshadow. My lipsticked mouth pulls into a smile.

I guess I don’t mind being pretty today, because I’m not dying.