Valete, Fratres

Fingers prowled the lipstick smeared rim of her wine glass, teasing shallow dips into the sanguine liquid. Seven cups, six empty of fermented grapes and Oprah sponsored tablets. Liquid death, a miracle blend of cyanide and artificial strawberry flavouring, advertised on lifestyle blogs and cheery hardback self help books alike - never had eternal oblivion been marketed quite so effectively. 

  She'd registered in the D.C. facility, 50% percent off for junkies, 10% off for recovering addicts. If only physical cancer was as easy to dissect. Her coat and boots had been taken on arrival, as had her antidepressants, the ones that managed to make her float off the grimy, bubblegum-caked sidewalks.

She was then lead into a white room that smelled like disinfectant and paper gowns, like the ones she'd seen the other participants sporting. The sheer amount of people still surprised her, she'd never realized how many degenerates the city housed in its many dark, shit-stained places. 

  The girl knew she'd die sooner rather than later but she'd always figured it'd be caused by that one extra hit of smack or that bit of molly rolled off the wrong tongue, never a government sponsored mass-suicide in the name of the greater good. And now here she was, sprawled on a red leather couch as the laced wine took effect, being stared at by some unfeeling bastards behind bulletproof glass. Scientists, fucking psychopaths.  

   A few minutes later her heart stopped and the girl in whiskey flavoured lips and ripped tights was no more. She was not included in history books and nobody ever knew who she really was. She was no one.