From the diary of Hailey Beckford -

Nights are getting longer - true, I know the time ratio is still fairly the same, but - it's more a feeling of unrest, a worry that chews feverishly at my soul. It's not something I can easily explain, but -

In the same, I don't want to.

Part of me wonders that every time I open my eyes - every time that I blink, breathe - it could be my last.

Something will strike. Soon.

-*-

I'd been very quiet lately, and as much as it scared me to keep away from what safety I did have, I knew that it would be for the wiser. After all, the aftermath of the fight was still fresh in my mind, even if it'd happened days before.

Days since I'd disappeared, hidden in the depths of my own room, under a fake name, at that. Something told me that I could be found almost too easily, but...

Again, I think people are smarter than that. At least the people who might know my whereabouts.

When I want left alone, I make sure I stay left alone.

For the moment, though, I'm standing in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the box that I'd placed on the bed. A black-laquered box with a silver lock glittering temptingly.

Once open, one would be able to see the lush violet velvet lining, as well as the weapon of destruction.

An instrument of justice.

In that box, in an almost pristine state, was my gun, fully loaded, safety off.

Aquatic eyes stare at it for a long time, my head tilted to the side, long flaxen tresses falling in my face - in the days that I've been hiding, I'd let my appearance go to disarray.

Clothes wrinkled. Hair hadn't seen a brush for days. The faint smell of days old perfume hung around me.

Another long moment of thought, and I walk over to the bed, thumb sliding the lock's numbers into place, then lightly pressing the button, letting the latch fly open. A steady hand moved for the gun, and I closed my eyes, placing the nose of the barrel just under my chin, trigger finger gingerly in place.

Eyes close, and for a moment, I consider. One pull of this trigger, and all my pain could end. All the suffering, the conflict I'd put on myself, gone in an instant.

Brains splattered against beige pattered paper, the blue flowers smattered with blood.

In the same instant though, I think of something else. Someone else. Several someones.

I'm not in this for just myself anymore, not my own twisted sense of revenge.

The trigger finger quivers, and temptation ebbs and wanes.

Freedom from my self-proclaimed duty. An escape from the pointed stares and threatening suspicion.

The warmth from a night of seduction. The look of hope that glittered in dark eyes when I walked into the room. My father's deteriorating health...

He was dying. I hadn't said anything to anyone, but - I'd recieved the call yesterday. He may have a week.

They'd wanted me to come home. Come away.

Part of me wanted more away than anyone could understand.

The trigger finger squeezed slightly, but not enough to release the shot. Voices - I could hear someone telling me to stop this, that I was worth more than that, that people would pay for making me hurt.

All the hurt had been brought on by myself, though. All of it.

I should just pull it.

Eyes fluttered open, and the gun slipped. Trigger finger slid.

The shot rang out, I'm sure, but it only hit the wall behind me.

I, instead of dying at my own expense, collapsed into a fit of tears.

There is nothing but pain here.