She wore a tight, black wool sweater over a faded jade japanimation tee shirt. Her favorite sweater bought at Goodwill still lingered with the scent of Alyona Ivanovna. The sweater had four black plastic buttons, but she only buttoned three, stretching in the breast. She pushed up the sleeves of the sweater to her elbows. Her skin was buttery porcelain marred by rose thorn scratches on her wrists. I had watched her play with the razor blades cut into the arms of her easy chair in her room. For moments when she wished to liberate herself, she drained the unclean in her body, bleeding out the filth within her tainted soul. She didn't realize that she also bled her life-force. She wished to shatter a hole in her bell jar, like Esther Greenwood attempted to bleed her way to freedom. But the bell jar doesn't break; the blood only pollutes the air inside.
