She can feel the balled up piece of paper hidden deep in her pocket, her death sentence. She laughs, then feels a strangled sob escape from her lips.
The walls of the loft seem to be closing in on her. Her ragged breathing through her tears sounds pathetic to her own ears.
She waltzes around the room, pretends he's dancing with her. Grabs a cigarette from his stash and twirls it between her fingers. Hugs one of his old shirts close to her face, breathes deeply.
She hunts through two purses and a box of her belongings before she finds the right necklace. The soft material of the dress she slips on brings a whisper of a smile to her face. Remember me as I was that night.
She pulls a poster of him from the club off the wall, folds it carefully. I'm a coward, she reasons, and tucks it in her dress.
Her hand shakes when she picks up the pencil, scrawls her last words. She bites her lip, willing her tears back. Don't mourn for me.
A pair of scissors rest on the counter, mocking her as she runs her fingers over its alarmingly sharp edges. You don't want to do this, she hears. The same gentle tone he used when she had held the needle.
She sighs, picks it up anyway. She didn't listen the first time, it doesn't matter now.
The bathroom tiles are cold beneath her bare feet. She fills up the bathtub, slips into the warm water. Carefully holds the blade, traces his name in her pale arm, waits.
As her blood seeps into the water, she finally cries. She doesn't want them to see her waste away, doesn't want them to cry for her, doesn't want to see him suffer for her mistakes.
The ceiling spins. I'm sorry.