The bed is amazingly comfortable. Probably just seems like it because I've spent the last year and a half sleeping on a cot.
I look over the room again, lit only by moonlight. I listen carefully for sirens. The police are surely after me. But not even the faintest whisper of them can be heard. I rest my head on my knee. I still have my bright orange jumpsuit on. I consider changing into something better, but I plan on going back to prison in a few hours anyway.
Since Deb wasn't going to visit me, I decided to visit her. What do I have to lose? My execution date is tomorrow. I gave her all the time I could, she still refused to visit. It had to be done.
I move about the room, examining my little sister's life. It seems almost the same as before. But little things are off. Like how every picture of me seems to either be missing or among a broken picture frame and glass on the floor. How dust has gathered on just about everything, telling my she hasn't done much but sleep and eat for the past year. The large stack of unopened mail that barely made it past the front door.
What really disturbs me is the empty bottles of vodka and scotch that litter her apartment, coating it with a scent that both burns your nose and leaves a rotten taste in your mouth. Angel was right, she is taking things really hard. Really, really hard.
I listen again for the sirens. The night is perfectly quiet, and it's so easy for my mind to play tricks on me. The simple buzz of a mosquito seems to turn into the gentle whispers of police sirens, coming to take me away.
But it's a trick. There are no police coming. The sirens are nothing but a bug, and I'm left waiting.
I walk to her bed stand. Between an empty beer can and a half full bottle of scotch is a picture, face down. I pick it up, viewing it.
It's me and Deb. We are at the station, hugging and smiling. I wonder if she considers herself an only child now.
I wonder what she'd do if she found out that Harry was in on this all. I don't like that thought. I'm really glad I didn't spill everything to that reporter like I wanted to.
The lights flick on and I spin around.
Her face is horror stricken, her eyes red from crying. Doesn't exactly fit my picture of her smirking that famous Deb-smirk. Not that I expected that. If she was my same old sister, than I wouldn't have had to break out of prison to help her.
"Deb!", I gasp, finally glad to see her. Her face is still twisted with horror, and I decide that I need to make this quick. When she does start to think and act, then I probably won't be able to get a word in.
"I know you hate me, and probably really pissed that I broke out of prison, but listen to me. I just want to talk to you", I rush out in one breath, trying to disarm her. Her eyes are empty, dead, and I feel like I killed her myself. I killed her in worse ways than I've killed any of my other victims. But I'll fix her, even if it's the last thing I'll do. Which it will be.
"No...", she mutters deadpan, stepping back, tears forming in her eyes. Life flows into her brown eyes, even if it's pain. It's...something.
"I'm sorry about breaking into your home, but I just had to say goodbye. Look, I know that you really hate me, but I do love you-"
"Get out...", she whispers, her voice still dead.
"You're my little sister, and I couldn't die without saying that I'm so sorry for hurting you like this-"
"Get out", she interrupts me again, with more force this time. Anger begins to form. It's good I decide. Anger is better than depression.
"And I will. I'll go back to prison, just as soon as I make sure you know this-"
"Get the fuck out!", she screams, and I flinch, afraid the neighbors heard. They'll call the cops, and I'll be dragged back to prison. I look at her pleadingly, realizing that my time may have just become very limited.
"Deb, listen-", I try again.
"No! Get the fuck out!", she screams again, pulling out her gun. My breaths hitches. The situation just got deadly.
"Deb, put the gun away", I try to coax her back to sanity. She doesn't scream this time, but she's panting, and I can see the pure rage boiling in her. The hatred splayed all over her face.
"You don't want to shoot me", I say, even though I know it's a lie by the way she is glaring at me. "You'd regret it forever", I continue, trying to get her to see some sense. I've already accepted death, but she couldn't live with herself if she killed me. This is about her. I need to make sure that she'll be okay. How could she ever recover from killing her own brother?
She points the gun at me, and I can hear the gentle click as the safety is turned off.
"Deb...", I softly beg.
There's a bang. A pain in my chest. My legs go numb. The room spins, and I realize I'm falling. The world around me becomes silent, sounds meshing into a gentle hum. The only real sound is my heart beating sporadically. Deb drops the gun and falls into the fetal position, crying. I can't hear her sobs, but I can see the tears streaming down her cheeks and her mouth open wide as she screams. I'm vaguely aware that I've failed her. I try to say that I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if I was able to move my lips.
I realize I'm covered in a liquid.
I realize the liquid is blood.
It hurts to breath, so I stop.
I can't hear my heart anymore.