Everyday, she would check her bank balance to see if the numbers were growing and if she’d made enough.
She would tell herself all the time that at twenty seven, she was too much of a free-spirited woman to be tied down to one spot, and everyday, her boss would remind her that she wasn’t. That she needed this cubicle and this job and the money. And she bore it all, with a tight-lipped smile.
She sighed as she looked at the list of Airbnb’s she’d favorited, and told herself she would one day, eventually, see the Pink City. And the rest of India. She’d been obsessed with the country, the customs, the lifestyles, the food, for as long as she could remember.
And one day it happened.
A million hour long flight, and a million layovers and a mile long line later, she finally took an Uber to get to her destination. She didn’t even make it halfway, she didn’t get to leave the capital.
The last thing she remembered was the knife, and she felt a lot of pain, and she remembered thinking how xenomania had eventually managed to kill her spirit after all.