Saturday
Aislen’s alarm buzzed at the unbearable hour of five, and she grumbled as she turned it off and rolled out of her childhood bed, testing her feet on the floor. The pain was not as raw as it had been, more of a bruised feeling.
She showered and rubbed ointment over the tattoos that she could reach, as well as her three piercings, handling them gingerly, slightly disgusted by them, their movement within her flesh making her stomach queasy. Would they just heal if she took them out? She wondered. She’d have to search it on the internet and try to work it out.
“f*****g Triquetra,” she muttered under her breath, realizing she couldn’t wear any of her corsets or bras, as they’d rub against the tattoos. “f*****g fucker f***s,” she muttered, as she pulled on a camisole and tore open
