It was another choice to be made, a crossroads that she was not entirely ready to be facing, as she held the full syringe in her hand, daintily. Looking at it there, as she sat by the window in the moonlight that seemed to give her some clarity, she was repulsed. It would be easy enough for the moment to set it aside, but it would be to no avail and she knew it -- she would only return for it later. Putting it away for the time being would be worthless only because she would know it was there and be comforted by the ability to return to it when she neared the panic of being without. She sighed out loud, setting the syringe on her nightstand and plunging her face into her hands.
"It shouldn't be this... hard," she murmured, to no one.
She wasn't sure exactly what she was complaining about, exactly what was difficult, but everything seemed weighted at the moment. Her mind wandered only momentarily to Roger and a look of absolute disappointment radiating off of his face, to how easy it would be to slip and into the familiar daily miniature escapes that she'd left behind. At times, she felt like that was what she wanted, to just fade in the most painless way possible. She'd imagined it, tasted it, wondered about it, but something held her back. She was never sure what, but something about her life pacified her screaming for attention, her thirst for perfection she felt she could never attain.
She picked the syringe up once more and studied it carefully with another loud sigh, this one slightly more exasperated than the last. Having come to a centre, to a decision, she tied herself off and tapped her arm, searching reverently for a vein capable of taking in her poison. She was humiliated, but knew that this moment was not the moment to challenge herself, not yet. Perhaps it was because she had no reason to do so, perhaps it was because she knew she'd fail with anything short of divine intervention. Either way, she had found her mark and begun her once nightly ritual.
It wasn't long before euphoria and relaxation overwhelmed the feelings of regret. All processes of questioning the guidance of the needle shut down and she was in her mind, in the space she felt most safe with herself.
"Shit," she mumbled, untying the rubber tubing and placing it behind the empty syringe on the table before collapsing back into pillows that may as well have been clouds to her.