No one hate me. Stay tuned (trust me, you'll want to)! -Becca

"Please, Jack," My lips curl inwards and are met by the dryness of my mouth. All residual moisture in my body has left, fled as tears of sorrow, sadness, panic, and fear, leaving only parchment in their stead.

"Now, Beverly, don't be frightened," he kisses my temple as he moves around my chair to stand behind me.

"Please, Jack." I repeat, knowing that it makes no difference. Icy hands grab my forearms and twist them unnaturally behind my back. I don't cry out, however, in amid the obscene, almost audible, tearing of rotator cuff muscles. It's a waste to cry; there's no pity left in him – no soul.

"Begging me, Beverly, won't do you any good." He ties my arms with a band, holding them firmly in place. I know it won't, so I resign myself to silence.

Images of my husband and my children flood my mind. In a moment, I transport myself from here and I'm lying with him in our bed. I'm warm, covered by his body. I block out the feeling of the restraints bruising and cutting into my skin as I feel my own warm blood trickle down through my fingertips. I focus in on Jean Luc's lips on my neck where he's feathering hot, warm, delicious kisses. I try to focus on how I feel when his hands slide down over my hip, and lower. Despite my pain, my eyes are closed and a small smile quirks on the corners of my mouth at this vision.

Jack notices, "That's the spirit, Beverly. I like you so much better with a smile. Tell me, what are you thinking about?"

I breathe his name like my final benediction. His name is the last thing that I want to say as I leave this life; His face is the last thing I want to see. I nod my head – at least I told him I loved him one last time. "Jean Luc," I whisper.

He laughs, "Oh Johnnie…" I hear him move behind me. There's a rustle of plastic and tools and I immediately cringe at what he might be preparing for me. My thoughts again move to Jean Luc and Wes in the other room. Wes. He'll be okay, I soothe to myself. Jack, however hateful and malevolent he might be, won't kill him. He's too valuable. If he just does what he says, he'll live. And that's what's important. And maybe, maybe the EMH and his friend Seven can help him.

I think to Saoirse. My little blue eyed, fire-haired little girl. I'm glad that we're dying when she's so young; she won't remember us. She won't feel the pain of loss when she grows up without her parents because all that will be left of us are photos and maybe one or two distant memories, faded like colour on old fabric. And Aaron, he won't remember us at all. The two babies don't yet understand the concept of death and loss – not in the real sense.

Then it strikes me as simply as lightening on the prairie plains that they'll never know who their parents were. We'll never be able to protect them from the rigors of this harsh world. They'll never hear Jean Luc tell them a story in his rich, melodic voice that I love so much. I'll never run my hands through long, auburn strands, pulling them into a braid before her first day of school. I never see that little boy pouting on the kitchen stool after he's skinned his knee on the pavement for the first time.

I let myself pray, for only just the second time, that perhaps there is an afterlife – somewhere beautiful where I'll see my husband again. And one day, hopefully in the very distant future, our children…

I hear Jack's sharp intake of breath. "This is going to hurt a bit, Beverly. I'm not a doctor so forgive my digging." There's no remorse in his voice; he has no compassion. I flinch violently when I feel the sharp, thick-barreled needle bore its way into my skin. His angle is wrong and I can feel the tearing of tendons as he searches for a vein, or an artery. From what I can tell, it's an 18-gauge needle usually reserved for an infusion of large volumes of fluid. "I think I'm in," he drawls, jiggling the needle for emphasis.

I don't respond. "Sorry, Bevs, but like I said, I'm not a doctor. And it won't matter how badly I've damaged your arm; you won't be needing it anyway…" He slaps my upper arm jovially, eliciting another wince.

He returns to his position behind me, just out of my line of sight. "Now this," he brings to view a large saline-like bag. "This is Pur'pard." I've heard of it. It's derived from a rare plant on Kronos, the Kingon homeworld, and it's lethal in high doses. It's also a terribly painful drug. It stings the vessels and causes hemolysis of the red blood cells. The body becomes rapidly anemic and is starved of oxygen. I brace myself for at least 2 agonising hours of dying. 2 agonising hours thinking of my family and my life; being taunted by images of my 3 beautiful children whom I'll never hold again. 2 agonising hours torturing myself for my affair with Ronin. 2 agonising hours of hating myself for not telling Jean Luc that I loved him when I was 23 and averting not only this disaster, but over 20 years of frustration and longing.

"Now, I'll just hang this up right over here," He's pointing to something, but I don't look; I keep my gaze down at my lap.

I've given up. "Okay," I whisper softly, acquiescing my death.

He rounds the chair and kneels in front of me with a feigned look of penitence. In one slow, excruciating moment, he leans in, opens his mouth, and kisses me. His cold tongue sweeps along my bottom lip, requesting entry into my heat. I keep my lips clamped; my kisses and my body are willingly reserved for my husband. He pulls away and laughs against my mouth, "Goodbye, Beverly."