She takes a bullet to the head by her own hand, bleeding all over the floor of the bar as though she has no regard for the rest of the patrons. Nobody moves in the crowded establishment, all eyes locked on the source of the gunshot that still echoes in their ears like a ghost of life. A bullet hole mars the pale perfection of her temple, the standard issue military handgun lying on the floor near her outstretched hand. Her soul is spilling across the wood floor in crimson clots of loveless liquid, spreading slowly. The silver watch attached to her loose-fitting pants by a chain has fallen from her pocket, laying open on the floor with the hinge at an odd angle as the second hand ticks in place, frozen on impact to the ground. It's graceful in some demurely morbid way, laid out as though posed to perfection. The scar on her cheek doesn't even affect the look of peaceful sleep on her face, the blood running down the side of her face like a waterfall of broken promises and failed expectations. Her vest falls barely open to the black shirt beneath, hair spread out beneath her like a halo of pure black silk soaking up the blood. The barkeep breaks the silence as the glass he had been cleaning falls from his hands to shatter, millions of pieces of broken soul flying across the floor to irreparable condition. Even now, not a person moves, frozen as statues in their place on the stage of death.