Her palms were sweaty, nails chewed to the nub, her breaths coming out in heavy pants. The pasty concealer that was smeared upon the purple bruise stood out under the dim street light. It didn't match her skin but it was the only one she had. The falling snow was her only comfort. It chilled her burning skin, dancing within the wind. New Yorkers paid no mind to the frozen crystalline water, just went about with their night. The streets were crowded with sickly yellow colored cabs, women in miniskirts and stilettos leaning against the rough brick exterior of Mylo's gas station.
The stained grey hoodie hanging off her body offered no protection from the harsh winds. She glanced behind her, the shop window displaying a different assortment of clocks and watches. 11:42, she didn't have much time.
She took a step toward the gas station, her hands shaking violently, the beautiful snow could not calm her anymore. Every step she took was another spike of pain through her legs. If only she