She sits in a cracked vinyl chair in a room full of octogenarians, as gunsmoke plays quietly in the background- James Arness is saying something about the only woman he's ever loved.
She digs her fingernails into her palms and stares at the floor with its repeating faded patterns. She doesn't belong here, matching pain and numbness to lifespans triple her own.
The nurse calls her name and she stands so slowly, bones creaking, wavering slightly as she waits for the fog to clear. She pads softly down the dim hall and they leave her in a quiet room, quite alone.
The doctor calls her a pretty young thing, asks her what she is doing here. He gives no answers, only more medications and a sticky sweet smile meant to placate.
She walks away into the sunlight and a song plays on repeat in her head: I Know it's Over.