The vial of clear liquid sat on Kiri's workbench and looked innocent; she didn't dare think of it as such. Her abdomen throbbed and she took out a pen, two sheets of paper and an envelope for each; then she began her letters. She wrote the one to her brother—Ambrey—and her partner in crime—Soten—first, then she started the one to her spouse—Youko—to give him the instructions to care for their home. She'd taken over the maintenance when she'd been injured, but had been forced to do it very slowly; she hated that; she couldn't stand any more of it.
She wanted to explain what she was thinking and feeling to the people who were close to her, she wanted them to understand. So she wrote until her head was empty of words and then she sealed the envelopes, and put them on the stool when she stood up.
Kiri went to her Bloodplant in the corner, and held her palm over the leaves. She slit it with one claw and waited until the cut healed of its own accord, the blood seeped onto the leaves and was drawn inside immediately. When the cut was healed she went back to her workbench and began putting away her bottles and jars—she put them on their shelves where they had corresponding labels and dusted the worn wooden shelves that she'd brought with her when she moved to her spouse's home. The Bloodplant called to her; told her that she should stay—she just shook her head and continued her work. Everything was dusted one last time and then she scrubbed her workbench with harsh soap. To give herself a little time, she watched the wood dry; she decided that she wasn't going to back out—she took the cap off of the vial and drank the contents; the last sight she had was the wet wood of her workbench and then it was black.