Careful

Trigger warning: depictions of suicide

How many hairs did she pull from her head today? Probably two hundred. Maybe I have two hundred freckles, she thought. Did Crayola make two hundred colors of crayons? How fast did the world's fastest car go? Close to two hundred miles per hour? What will this town look like in two hundred years? If she were a witch would she only live for two hundred years? The number for the day: two hundred, once again. She sat on the tub's smooth edge contemplating suicide. 'What if I ate over the counter pills like candy for a couple of hours? I could count out two hundred pills and leave a note, a note that says: "200".' Hmm. She imagined how it would turn out. The plan probably wouldn't reach fruition. She would wake up, with her stomach pumped, mumbling to a nurse 'I'm supposed to be dead'. She dried herself off, thinking of the more than two hundred (times three) types of muscles she just passed over with her towel. Putting on her clothes she began to open the door and then caught herself. Completely drying one's hair before leaving the bathroom was an unwritten rule in this house-supposedly so you wouldn't get sick. 'Guess I should take care of myself. Wouldn't want to have mom schedule a doctor visit, not now, not when contemplating suicide. They'll put me back in two hundred, unit two hundred.' What happened there she would never forget. No one forgets unit two hundred. The first visit was the second-worst because she was clueless. Didn't even have two dollars for the snack machine (that's two hundred pennies by the way). Then, once she finally could communicate with her mom, it seemed like forever before she got the money her mom left at the front desk. The second visit was ok. The third visit, however, that one was no charm. By visit three she knew the ropes and could talk in an experienced manner to the newbies. The first thing she did was request extra change for her favorite newbie so that he or she could bust open some snacks from the snack machines. Then, the second thing she did was get bored. There was nothing fun, no shoe strings, and no sharp objects anywhere. And the quiet was maddening. Maybe she would be out in a couple more days was all she could ever think. Her therapist kept reminding her that she was a victim and not to take the past out upon herself, her own body. Easier said than done. No one knew her numbness. Only a numb person could cut their legs and arms two hundred times and not even bat an eye. She only needed two hundred minutes and she would be cold as ice. If only she could find the right place. She had found the wrong place once, an apartment after a party. That is really where half of her troubles began. It felt like just yesterday but it was also like something that happened a decade ago. The issues she already held so dear to herself became magnified by that eventful night. That is when more and more unit two hundred became a scene in this movie that all these people called 'her life'. She couldn't count how many times she had heard:'What is she thinking, trying to end 'her life'.' Or 'what is she doing with 'her life'. It wasn't the phrase as much as it was the way it was said as if it had some high value that she alone could not fathom. Oh well, for now, she knew she had to focus. The only way it would all work is if she could execute a careful plan. She thought about when the last visit to two hundred was. She had been counting and marking her calendar--the one her mom didn't see. One hundred eighty days ago. Great, almost there. Almost two hundred days and then she could forget all that happened in that apartment that night. She could forget the unit two hundred visits and all the 'friends' she had made there. All the sickness and despair. How long does it take for the human body to decompose? Not a good question because it has nothing to do with two hundred. The body begins to self digest immediately. She wished she would decompose fully in exactly two hundred hours. Then it would all be neatly done, carefully wrapped, and tied with a bow as they say. A perfect ending to the perfect suicide. She needed to write out a few directions, too. If her mom decided to cremate her she wanted her ashes placed at exactly two hundred different places. Maybe two hundred trees or shrubs could be helped exponentially by her death. Or a boat captain could drop her two hundred miles offshore. If the cremation wasn't to be, then she wanted exactly two hundred daisies on her coffin. Not roses, roses were for old people who were regal. She wanted hippie flowers, free-spirit flowers covering her body. All she had ever wanted was to be a free spirit but two hundred took that all away from her. Unit two hundred, apartment two hundred. She wondered why she never told anyone the connection. It was her secret and she planned to go to her grave as a perfect specimen of the two hundred curse. Maybe two hundred people would attend in two hundred cars if she were careful. She could get a cheap little journal from the dollar store and write out all her requests leaving it out in the open with a note on top. Would it be too much for her mom? Writing out funeral and burial plans in the fashion of a party's guest and supply lists? She wished she could incorporate spiders hatching into her funeral arrangements, they often hatched two hundred at a time, but that probably wouldn't be precise enough anyway.Scratch that element. She began wondering what color journals were available at the nearest store. Have to pick a color that goes with my personality. She walked to the corner dollar store and found one with a photo of a single white daisy on top. It was perfect, there were two hundred pages of paper inside.