[b]11:30 AM[/b]

Normal people awoke to an alarm clock. Maybe a strong urge to use the toilet thanks to a full bladder. Perhaps a growling stomach and a craving for breakfast. 

Vander was awakened by a sharp ache coursing through her stomach. She groaned, the sound quiet even in the silence of her apartment, and curled up in a tight ball on the old mattress. Hazy late-morning sunlight poured in through the dirt-streaked glass of her window. She closed her eyes tightly, the light threatening to trigger a headache. When the hateful sunlight still pierced through her closed eyelids, she raised a hand to cover her face. Her fingers shook. 

Shaking hands, aching stomach, light sensitivity... peering through her fingers, Vander looked across the wall at the time projected onto the wall across the room. Late morning. Almost noon. She wasn't sick, she was simply slept too long and was now having a withdrawal. Rolling off the old mattress of her bed, Vander quickly stumbled her way across the room to the tiny kitchen. On the counter, a syringe was ready and waiting for her. With a practiced, habitual motion, she rolled up the sleeve of her raglan sweater and slid the needle under the skin at the inside of her elbow. Her hand still shook, eliciting a slight wince as she slowly pushed the plunger down. The girl leaned back against the counter, exhaling a sigh of relief as the warmth of the drug coursed its way through her body. 

She looked down at the counter. "Damn..." The empty hypodermic in her hand was alone. The last one in her stash. She bit her lip anxiously, looking at the empty syringe. She had to get more. Tonight. 

Turning the lights on in her apartment, she walked around and looked at the space. It was a mess. Had been for weeks now. Dirty clothes littered the floor, the bed was unmade, and all of the furniture looked like it was older than she was. Which, as of three weeks ago, was nineteen. Vander frowned as a stab of regret hit her. Three weeks past nineteen, and there was no way she would live to see twenty. Lucid would claim her months before that would happen. She sighed and walked into the tiny washroom. 

A few minutes later, her hair was brushed over the right side of her face. She was dressed in worn-out black jeans and a clean raglan shirt. Her eyes, slightly bloodshot, were lined with dark makeup. Grabbing her leather jacket from the floor and lacing up her boots, she locked the apartment door behind herself and walked out onto the streets of District 16.