[ WP ] Emotional pain can create tattoos as physical pain can create scars .

Drawing the thick dark liquid from it's insulated urn, you are greeted with the acrid aroma of what must surely be yesterday's brew. Sighing, you clutch the Styrofoam cup with pale hands and head to the register. Producing a crumpled bill from the depths of your coat pocket, you carefully slide it over the counter towards the cashier. Her crimson nails cease their inpatient tapping and deposit the funds into her drawer. Sharon is a friend of your mothers and she has worked here for years to supplement her meager social security since her husband passed away. You do n't look up. 
 
 Eyes deliberately trained on your scuffed black boots, you turn to exit the cafeteria, crossing the mint green tile in shuffling steps. Reaching the automatic doors that groan open upon your approach, you step outside into the frosty early morning. Extracting a cigarette from its cardboard pack, you struggle with the cheap plastic lighter. A pair of slippered feet appear in front of yours and a gruff voice offers a light. The liver spotted hands that appear in your periphery shakily extend a lit match. Leaning forward, you inhale deeply, pulling the soothing smoke into your lungs. Muttering a thanks, you turn to put some distance between you and this intrusive stranger. At his age, he would certainly have them. One for each parent, maybe more. You do n't look up. 
 
 Glancing at your phone, you know you must get back. Stubbing out the remains of your Camel Light in the standing ashtray by the door, you head back inside to the garish fluorescent light and antiseptic smell. Moving towards the bank of elevators, you glimpse the ruffled hem of a light blue dress barely a foot from the floor. The tiny patent leather shoes click lightly on the linoleum as they cross the threshold of the lift and come to a stop next to a pair of large, expensive Italian loafers. 
 
 `` Can I press the button Daddy?'' You watch as the tiny hand eagerly reaches up. Shit. You are all heading to the same floor. The intensive care unit that has been your personal hell for the last 18 days must be hers too. `` How long before Mommy gets better?'' The young ones are always the worst. You do n't look up. 
 
 Taking a deep breath, you enter the room with its green vinyl chair and elevated bed. A pair of well worn sensible white shoes stand beside it. A soft voice whispers `` He's gone''. Somehow you had already known. With a trembling hand, you reach up and stroke your cheek. Your fingers linger on the softness there beneath your left eye. It's already there, you know it is. A single black tear, the mark that you must bear for all the world to see. Those shoes turn towards the door, they pause for a moment as they pass you. She knows it's there now as certainly as you do, she has worked this floor for a long time. 
 She does n't look up.
