Chapter 8

She had drifted in and out of memories and she was starting to get sick of it. Once again, she woke up to dog breath and a bad headache. While Dogmeat got fatter, she felt like she was losing weight. Wadsworth told her she needed help but she laughed, assuring him she was fine. And she was, for the most part. She slowly ran her palms down her body, feeling her ribs through her skin, feeling her chest rise as she inhaled. It might be the drugs she was taking. There were marks all over arms and now she's moved on to shooting them around her hips, just so there'd be visual balance when she looked at herself naked. She wasn't addicted. Not anymore. It happened three times before but she wasn't addicted now. She was only taking them because anything she ingested was bound to be puked out later.

And she pretty much puked everything out.

"Just until I remember everything," she told herself. She hadn't talked to Charon for days. Sometimes, in the last moments before sleep took over, she'd think she saw him peep in at her, probably wondering if he would carve his contract out of her skin. That was why she put her combat knife on the desk beside her. Sometimes she thought about how much he hated her. Because now he had no chance to kill her like he did to Ahz. Because now, the contract was on her skin. And he wouldn't let her cut it out of her skin. She heard his voice denying it. A spark of something would flash in his eyes, he'd purse his lips and he'd glance at his name on her chest. 'Of course, you hate me. I'm your employer.'

She was dramatic about things sometimes. As she fingered the blade of the knife, she accidentally cut herself. It didn't hurt, but Dogmeat whining at her did. He nuzzled her and barked at her asking why she was being like this.

"I'm tired of watching things die," she whispered to him, patting him weakly. "But everytime I close my eyes I see them. I see Dad." She coughed. "And everytime I leave the house, I want to kill something." That was the truth, really. Her eyes gazed over to her gun collection that stood on the opposite wall. She didn't remember every kill, but enough that they filled her mind. The thing was: she wanted to remember the purifier incident. Somehow, each time she gave in to memories, an image of her father dying would surface. Then it would merge into someone else's face, someone else she killed. It was an exhausting cycle. Once, she let the cycle run its course and at the end of it, there was nothing. It was just a hazy greenish blue with a darkish figure of a man. Then it faded to a blank blackness. That was 3 days ago. She remembered every person she killed.

Now as she gave in to sleep, she was thinking about sweet Sugar Bombs and how she should give them to Murphy soon. Because Barrett liked them. And Murphy liked Barrett. And Barrett liked Murphy.