The next day, as Bette lay in bed at six in the morning, she couldn’t sleep. She had been blinking at the ceiling for hours as she tried to send her mind into unconsciousness, but to no avail. Her eyes were glassy and red-veined from the insomnia that had gone from chronic to critical. All she thought about was her unwillingness to fight further, to live any longer. Her body was exhausted and aching, her soul felt small and shabby, darkened by a seizure of her sins.

Her heavy lids slowly lowered. Instantly she saw blood dripping from a full moon, blood dripping from the sun, she saw blood running in what were streams of clear water. The sound of gunfire was all around her – she heard it echo in her head like cymbals. The images and sounds happened each time her eyes would close involuntary due to fatigue. There were faces, the faces of her victims, people that suffered from her will, Dominic, Marcus’s killers, Miranda, various clients and women, all pointing a damning finger at her and mouthing silent words. They smothered her, making it impossible to scream, or even to breathe.

She had never thought about death as much as she did lately. Death had never been so inviting before. She didn’t love herself anymore, didn’t like what had become of her in the past few months. She felt like falling through the never-ending darkness, drowning in an all-elgulfing wave of hopeless searing pain that would never be alleviated. She didn’t deserve anything or anyone, she was evil, twisted to her rotten core and felt so unworthy of love because of all the lives she had destroyed. And now her own deeds were slowly destroying her.

With a weak groan Bette cracked her eyes open and began watching the ceiling again. It was like a routine for her, to stare at the ceiling, then close her eyes in hopes of falling right into oblivion, to fail and open her eyes again, only to resume her exploration of the same ceiling as if waiting for it to fall and break into small pieces all over her body.

There was a slight movement on the mattress. Bette turned her head on the pillow and studied the woman that rested beside her. Her shoulder and back were exposed, for the thin white sheet had slid down her creamy body a bit. Her sleep seemed untroubled. Bette could hear the even rhythm of her breathing, it calmed the brunette somewhat as she listened carefully.