For a moment, she leaves it there, soaked to the hilt with her own blood. Then, out it comes. She cries out, grunts, but doesn't stop there, stabbing once more, at her left arm. And then again, at her side. Again, and again, and again, each punctuated with a cry or moan, and even as she stumbles backward she does not stop.
Have to stop it- no bloody virus...is going to make me kill anyone else!
No longer does her face hold the sad smile. No, it's given way to agony. Still, the knife remains firmly clutched in her hand, even though she's soaked in blood. Even as she coughs it up, as it stains her lips, she won't stop. In her pain, there's something defiant.
To the chest, to the side, again and again, wildly. Higher and higher, slashing at her own face, catching her nose and her right cheek, something has to do it. Something has to chase this out of her, or she'll die trying.
At last, the knife finds its way home: to her throat. Rebecca rips the blade out, spraying blood from her jugular and that, finally, does it. The choking gasp returns, as her eyes seem to search the crowd for something--someone-- she can't see. She mouths something, or tries to, and gags, and at last the knife falls from her trembling hand.
Rebecca herself falls too, to her knees and then flat on her face, blood pooling around her. A few coughs, a few helpless gasps, but nothing more.
It doesn't take long to bleed out, from that many wounds. The whole thing happens in about a minute.
2/2 CW: Suicide
For a moment, she leaves it there, soaked to the hilt with her own blood. Then, out it comes. She cries out, grunts, but doesn't stop there, stabbing once more, at her left arm. And then again, at her side. Again, and again, and again, each punctuated with a cry or moan, and even as she stumbles backward she does not stop.
Have to stop it- no bloody virus...is going to make me kill anyone else!
No longer does her face hold the sad smile. No, it's given way to agony. Still, the knife remains firmly clutched in her hand, even though she's soaked in blood. Even as she coughs it up, as it stains her lips, she won't stop. In her pain, there's something defiant.
To the chest, to the side, again and again, wildly. Higher and higher, slashing at her own face, catching her nose and her right cheek, something has to do it. Something has to chase this out of her, or she'll die trying.
At last, the knife finds its way home: to her throat. Rebecca rips the blade out, spraying blood from her jugular and that, finally, does it. The choking gasp returns, as her eyes seem to search the crowd for something--someone-- she can't see. She mouths something, or tries to, and gags, and at last the knife falls from her trembling hand.
Rebecca herself falls too, to her knees and then flat on her face, blood pooling around her. A few coughs, a few helpless gasps, but nothing more.
It doesn't take long to bleed out, from that many wounds. The whole thing happens in about a minute.
Rebecca Gales is dead. ]