Meg wasn't dead, but she was vomiting blood by the end of the night. Even Jackson was smart enough to panic on that one; he didn't know what to do other than to not call for an ambulance because that would mean answering questions, and he was far too drunk for that.

"What the fuck, Meg! What the fuck! What's wrong with you? Stop doing that shit!"

"Jackson...just...please. Drop me off at a hospital. Out in the parking lot. I won't say shit. It's okay. I just fell." 'Fell on what, asshole? Kicks, punches, slaps, weeks worth of your bullshit and all for this. I want to shoot you in the head and see what pretty colors you make.'

"I'm not that stupid. You'll tell them I did this. I should just leave you here, you stupid bitch! You're broken, anyway. Fucked up. I should have just left you where I found you."

"Then take my ID. Take my wallet." Meg paused to cough more blood onto the floor in the bathroom, earning another slap from Jackson. "I can't be anyone without an ID. I'm not in a hotel, I'm not traceable. Even my job is all cash. I don't exist." 'And what that has to do with telling the cops you tried to kill me, I don't know. Drunk logic. I wonder what noises you'd make if I cut your balls off.'

"You don't exist?" Jackson looked interested.

Meg pounced on the opportunity. 'Bingo. Drunk logic. Dumbfuck.' "I'm nobody, Jackson. I just wanna stop throwing up, they can give me medicine for that. Then I can come home to you. Nobody will know. I just wanna be with you, so you can take care of me."

Jackson kept pacing, manic, raking his hands through his hair, vodka on ice in his hand, finally pushing her down onto the bathroom floor with his foot, pinning her throat under far too much of his weight. "If you say a fucking word, I will kill you."

Meg tried to wheeze out an answer, but nothing came other than spit and some crushed gurgles. She pushed at his foot, lifting enough to let her nod in assent, and she felt the pressure let up ever so slightly. It was enough for her to start gasping for air, to keep conscious and focused. 'Right now, that's all I need. Stay awake, Meg. Stay awake.'

"Get up. You need to walk on your own. And keep your head down." Jackson threw Meg's clothes at her as he found them, slamming the bathroom door behind him once he felt he gave her enough to be sufficiently covered.

'Shit. Shit, shit. Hurry up, Meg. Go, go go. Get on your feet now.'

Meg dragged her clothing on, forcing herself to ignore the grinding in her chest, and lunged out into the bedroom, praying Jackson hadn't looked at her shoes. He was leaning against the dresser, swirling a clearly refilled drink in its glass. His face read somewhere between irritated and inebriated; Meg had to tread lightly. She padded carefully toward the bed, sitting down slowly on the edge, and while working her feet into her shoes managed to feel around inside of both of them, breathing a small sigh of relief. 'Small favors, Cosmic Being. Thank you.'

Jackson forced the rest of his drink down and slammed the glass against the surface of the dresser, jolting Meg out of her thoughts. Grabbing her by the arm, he lifted her from the bed and pushed her toward the door, but peered out into the hallway ahead of her.

"Keep. Your mouth. Shut." Jackson's voice was an acidic hiss, and she could smell the alcohol on him, antiseptic and bracing. Sweeping her hair over the worst of her cut, Meg stayed silent, didn't look at him or anyone else, and slowly, felt a sense of calm creep over her body. Everything started to ache a little less, her vision cleared a little more, the gritting was slightly less noticeable. Boarding the elevator down to the parking garage, Meg breathed easily for the first time since walking away from Joe.

'Dear Cosmic Being. I'm coming home. Tell everyone I'm sorry. Tell everyone I love them. Let me stay awake long enough to see what pretty colors he makes. I'm so sorry. Such a bad Magdalena. Or a good one. I don't know, but I'm coming home.'

Once they made it down to the parking garage, Meg was dizzy. She bent to spit blood into the cigarette bin near the elevator doors, and was disoriented when she rose back to vertical. By the time Jackson half dragged, half shoved her over to his BMW, she was shivering and covered in a cold sweat. It was hard work hauling the passenger door open, but it was worth it to sink into the luxury of the interior of the car. 'I have to give him credit. He always did have good taste. Preferred foreign models, even when he was cheating on me.'

"Don't fucking bleed on anything. You hear me?"

"I won't, baby. I'm listening. And I won't say anything. You know how much I love you."

Pushing the ignition button, the car roared to life. Meg slowly buckled herself into her seat, trying not to twist too much, aggravate her ribs further, or risk losing consciousness. Jackson backed out wildly, banging Meg around the interior of the car, attracting far too much attention from the garage attendant, who waved at them and yelled to slow down as they pulled away.

"Asshole." Jackson muttered.

"He shouldn't tell you how to drive, baby." Meg would have told Jesus to piss up a rope if it meant keeping Jackson pliable. She tilted herself towards him, checking the speedometer, watching him drop down onto the freeway, knowing they were about 20 minutes away from the nearest emergency room. 'Even if he speeds, it's all good. Right, Cosmic Being? I don't even have to watch, honestly.'

Meg tried to still her hands, and took as deep a breath as her body would allow her. She adjusted towards the glove compartment and leaned down over her knees in an affected bout of faux-nausea, beginning to rummage down the side of her shoe. Quickly, she palmed one of Jackson's fountain pens against her leg and wrote Randy's phone number on the side of her calf. She had managed to knock the pen to the floor while Jackson was throwing her around the bedroom in between blowjobs. Later that night, she slipped it into her shoe, determined to bring it with her if she was able to talk Jackson into leaving their room with her at some point. 'At least Randy will answer the fucking phone when the morgue calls. And you had too much to drink, Jackson.'

"Are you gonna fucking throw up?" Jackson took one hand off the wheel and snatched Meg up by the hair, slamming her back into her seat and sending the car into a swerve. "What the fuck did I tell you about fucking up my car? Are you gonna fuck up my car?"

"Yes, Jackson." Meg's voice was eerily flat. "I'm gonna really fuck up your car."

She pulled back as hard as she could with the pen and slammed it down into his thigh, then lunged for the steering wheel and yanked it as far to the right as she could get it to go before her seat belt snapped her back into place. The car, already fishtailing from Jackson's misguided decision to take one hand off the wheel, went into a complete spin, hitting the concrete barrier and then going into a barrel roll down the middle of the highway.

In the split second Jackson had to correct the multiple problems that were about to complicate his night, he couldn't decide if he needed to pull the pen from his leg, correct the spin on the steering wheel, or snap Meg's neck. He didn't have the time to prioritize any of his ideas before the driver's side of the car slammed into the concrete median, bending the front of the body of the car around him and slamming the steering column into his chest.

Meg watched time slow down around her, saw the pillowy airbags explode – and then saw Jackson's became coated entirely in red as it met, then disappeared inside of, his chest. A shower of auto glass coated his face, then hers, leaving a glittering mist in the air inside the car. 'I won the battle and the war, right, Cosmic Being? And he made pretty colors.' Meg tucked her arms in, pulled her legs up, and closed her eyes as the car crumpled in around her from all angles, rolling down the highway at eighty miles an hour, coming to rest against the cement legs of an overpass, rocking gently in the warm night air.