In the aftermath, she was forgotten. Rumors inked on her skin and in trails of teardrops from her eyes she was outcast; she was not one of them. In her room she sat, remembering the way they had sneered at her. She was tired. She was so tired. It wasn't long after this that her hands, black with ink of gossiped lies, began to reach for bottles of Nyquil, or Benedryl, did you know that if you fought the feeling it felt so good?