We travel out of darkness into faith.

Silence. She is saying a word. I am scared to say anything. I am waiting for her to break the ice. She is staring a hole into wall I think. I think I'd be crying or pacing or possibly even drinking, but she is staring.

"If you don't mind, I wanna be alone," she said.

"Of course. I'll be finishing my report, so I'm here if you need me," I say and slowly walk out of the door.

"Thank you," she whispers. I barely hear that, but it means a lot.

I close the door. My legs are taking me to the elevator, my hand pushes the right button, because I am limb. I might be feeling even worse than she is and I am not the one sick.

My work place is empty. I look at one of the tables and I think that after awhile I might have her here on one of those tables. On one of those cold, metal and inhumane tables covered with other people's germs, blood and fluids. If she comes here I'll clean the table. I'll scrub the whole night, so the princess can have a table she deserves.

I can't look at myself. I can't think of myself. It's not my fault that she has it, it's her parents cause, but why I feel so guilty ? Why I feel like I made her sick ? Nothing would have happened, if it would have been diagnosed before. FFI is untreatable. There is some kind of gene therapy has been done, but it's unsuccessful. There is no cure or treatment. Sleeping pills make things worse. I know that she has about 18 months left – it's the average since the symptoms start. She has been sick for about a month, so average of 17 months left, the last months are horrible, at this moment everything is... not so horrible.

I hear the doors opening and I know it's her.

"I need to shoot something," she says.

"I'm hoping it's not me, you want to shoot," I joke.

She smiles.

"No. I wanna go at the range and I'd like you to come with me," she said slowly and seriously.

"Of course dear," I say.

As we walk to the shooting range, we are both quiet. She takes her gun. I plug my ears. Then she does it too. She shoots. The target is hit, I can see it.

She shoots again.

And again.

And again.

Then she stops.

I see the image of man coming onto us – she didn't miss at all. Target's heart and head are hit.

"You really know how to use this gun," I comment. I feel like I should say something.

"Thank you. As my disease gets worse, I won't be able to do it. I probably can't carry my handgun. I might be dangerous. I don't know why, but somehow I feel like not everything has been bad. I have done many things I have wanted to and I've had fun. I like to think that I have made the world a safer place, by taking some arms dealers out of game, killing some murderers, assassins and soviet spies. I should feel good about it. And I have loved and I have been loved. I have seen the world. But the same there are so many things I have to do. I have to train someone to take over my position, while I am disappearing. I have to apologize, I have to say some things. I have a lot to do and not so much time," she rambles, but I know she means everything she says.

This is the moment, when I realized that I am nothing like her. I have never killed someone with a gun and I don't feel good about deaths. She is so much stronger than I am. She is so much tougher than I am. And she is so much better person as I am. I guess carrying a gun, killing people and being almost killed does that to people. And I am not one of them. Now I realize, that I am like an alien between them. But I do hope that these months make me closer to her and I have the chance to learn, what's really going on in her mind, before it's too late.

"We travel out of darkness into faith," I say. Wise and true. The sun is not up, but in complete darkness even glow-worm brings light.