Four years to the date tattooed on the inside of my right calf.
In the hospital where I was born. Same floor.
The trees outside the window were placed to represent ovaries, the circular driveway the uterus. They no longer bring people here to give birth, instead those who arrive wait for death, propped up in front of a television, mouths hanging open.
Standing in the hall I realize that it could mean anything I wanted it to mean. The death of the old me, the one who was born here. The end which was inevitable after my choice four years ago. Or it could mean rebirth and new beginnings. Rising from the dead to walk among the living.
Or, it could just be a building. The arbitrary dates merely coincidence. Themselves meaningless.
No one else suspects a story, so why build one?