She was going to be famous. Sure, every girl thought that, at some point or another, but Gina knew. Her agent (brother) told her that people would want to see her more, as a model or actress, if they grew accustomed to seeing her face.

Here she was, in the hot July sun, trying to put her face out there any way she could. A light breeze ruffled the sheaf of photocopies in her hands. She'd copied her headshot, and begun to plaster them all over town.

"Excuse me, sir?" she said to a man sweeping inside a Laundromat.

He turned to her with a put upon expression. "Whatchoowant?"

"Could I put this up in the window?"

"Why?"

She struggled for words at first, but eventually got permission to put her photo, if not in the window, at least on the side of one bank of washing machines. "Thank you," she whispered. (At least someone would see it.)

Two weeks later a mousy looking, older woman entered the Laundromat. "Sir?"

The man with the mop didn't even turn around. "What is it?"

She hesitated, then worked up her courage. "My daughter is missing," she said. "Can I put this flyer up on your bulletin board?"

"Bulletin board?"

She gestured to the photo on the side of the washer.

"I see," he said. "I guess it would be alright."

She thanked him, repeatedly, until a sob caught in her throat. Then she moved on.

The man went back to mopping.

Over the next weeks, three more people came in, posting pictures and flyers on the side of the washer bank.

Their staring eyes made the man uncomfortable. He moved the benches and tables so that people waiting on the clothes would block the photos from his view.

Amber had been with the Bad Man for almost a month. He said he was her Daddy, but she knew better. Her daddy didn't smell as nice, he smelled like sweat and sawdust and hard work, but he was a Good Man. Amber knew, because her mother had told her so.

When the Bad Man came in today, though, he looked badder than usual. Amber was afraid. The Bad Man had a can of something that smelled bad. Gas. It smelled like the gas station when Amber's mommy and daddy took her somewhere in the car. The Bad Man poured the gas all over her and pulled out a match.

In the Laundromat, the heat of the sun burned and bleached one of the photos until the staring eyes disappeared.

Gina was going to be famous. "You have to be thinner," her manager (brother) said. Gina followed his commands like the obedient girl she was. She stuck to her diet even when she started to faint from hunger. She ran until her legs were too thin to support her weight.

In the hospital they tried to feed her through IVs, but she ripped the tube out with her teeth. She'd be the thinnest of all the models. And if she died, well, that was a type of fame, wasn't it?

In the Laundromat, the paper crinkled and warped, and Gina's face contorted into a skeletal grin.

The man with the broom kept his eyes down when he walked past it.

Dana had run away from home. She was tired of watching her father beat on her mother, of hearing her mother make excuses for him.

She had been hitchhiking her way around the country, making new friends and spending the nights wherever she could.

Tonight, she had nowhere to stay. She wandered drunkenly down the highway, hoping for a kind stranger to pick her up, maybe even put her up in a motel.

She staggered, fell, laughed.

Behind her there came the roar of an engine. She turned, eyes wide, and stared into the oncoming headlights.

Her blood painted the highway.

In the Laundromat, the missing teen's poster dropped its mouth in a terrified cry.

One by one, as the women died, the photos changed or faded. Quarters dropped one by one into the machine, and rusted parts rubbed together, emitting an eerie scream.

^{you'rewelcome}