To think the end has a face...

She could never have imagined it would be so clear when it came. She thought she would only be able to see it in hindsight.

Was it the bleakness of it? Or the clear conscience that nothing else could be done anymore?

She held his cold hand in her left and a burning cigarette in her right. Staring into the distance, trying to discern something in the gray sky, she came to the conclusion that this was her last attempt at redemption. She would now give up on life. It was utter disappointment right till the end.

"Leave me", he whimpered.

"No."

She didn't even look at his bloodied self. She didn't intend to remove the silver knife lodged in his chest.

"I don't believe in sad endings. So I decided long ago I'll never kill anyone in my stories. But I always end up murdering someone. The knife they drive into their chest seems as if... I'm the hand that thrusts it into their flesh", she mused, burning the cigarette to her lips.

"Do you think you're the one who's killed me too?", he asked, merely a whisper.

She took a deep drag, watching the distant trees flutter under the grey clouds. The smoke floated up dancing right before her eyes, almost teasingly.

"I don't suppose anyone would ever kill me. Do you reckon I'll be able to do it myself?", she asked, tilting her head to the side, staring blankly into space.

"No."

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"Right?", she smirked, "I don't think I could do it either. But really what am I supposed to do now?"

For a while he was silent and she wondered if she'd never get the answer to her question.

"You don't start new things. You can hear the wind whistling through that gaping hole in your heart, that's how empty you are. But you fear the end more than anything—the nostalgia that will drive you mad, drowning you in deeper despair. So you never start anything at all. In the end... all that's left is this endless void."

"Tch...", she stubbed out the cigarette on the ground, annoyed by his sudden talkative urge.

She rummaged through her pocket for a fresh cigarette but only found a crumpled one. Her irritation doubled as she straightened it out and lit it, taking a long, steady drag.

"That's not true at all, in fact", she finally decide on a retort, "I believe life is a deeply tragic matter with mere episodes of distractions in between."

As if the weight of her statement dawned upon her only in the aftermath, her brow twitched and she sat back, almost disgusted by the realization. How meaningless it had all been. And how pointlessly she'd scrambled through to keep her head above water.

"What'll you do from now on?", he asked, his voice as weak as ever, growing lower by the minute.

"No more. I'm done."

"Is that a thing to be saying to a dying man?"

She finally looked at him, with pitying eyes, staring in silence. That face she couldn't forget always made her nostalgic. She closed her eyes, resting her head back.

When she opened them again, she was in the car, gripping the steering wheel with some struggle. Her palms hurt. The empty road stretched on. The street lights that illuminated the road as if it were day, didn't pierce through into the darkness of the car.

"Is there someplace I can get off?", his voice rose from the backseat.

"..."

She pensively looked straight ahead, straining her eyes to stay focused on the road.

"No? I didn't think so", he smirked, looking at the roof, "How many years have we been driving? Five? I don't think we're getting anywhere."

"Just shut up, we're almost there", she was frustrated, gripping the steering wheel as tightly as she could.

"There's no hospital in sight. I don't think we're anywhere, really", he chuckled, "But tell me the truth. Where are you going?"

She pursed her lips, struggling to keep her open. The hospital never came into view, indeed.

"Home", she whispered.

A pause ensued, broken by his very brief laughter. A passing flash of light fell upon the backseat, where he lay, blood flowing out of his chest, the knife still there.

"Who are you kidding? Your home is lying dead in the backseat of your car. You're never getting home."

The road wouldn't end. The car wouldn't go any faster. The sound of blood dripping wouldn't stop. She bit her lips and looked on. The night was eternal.

Indeed, the fatigue of driving on and on was beginning to show. She couldn't deny that it felt like every bone in her body was breaking, every shred of muscle was stretched thin to its limit.

She rested her head on the steering wheel and slammed the accelerator to the floor. Closing her eyes once more, she tried to breath but a deafening shrill scream engulfed her and a sharp pain sliced through her throat.

She tried to shut it out, keeping her eyes tightly shut, clenching the steering wheel. It took a moment before she opened her eyes, stunned at the painful realization that the scream filling the air was her own.