So they all say.

[Yaoquizque]

She was unable to repress the psychic scream of pure terror that echoed once again in her emptiness.
When did this change. Was it there from the beginning, waiting for the right time?

She remembered lying in a bed, talking to the man she loved. She felt weak, sick and vulnerable. He took care of her.

Today, she murdered him. She watched. That was the only thing left she could do.
Somewhere, nowhere, somehow, a part of her still existed; A fragile shell that was about to break.

Moira was praying for it to break quickly, so that she wouldn't have to watch any-more.
Would she be able to retain her integrity through an eternity in confinement, only enliven by the sensations flowing through the shell, from what once belonged to her?

It was talking to Wilson now. She sensed it was enjoying tasting her despair, for she knew what would follow.
It strangled him after several minutes of exquisite, and unbearable, toying.

There was no escape. Insanity would soon come to define the fragile site of consciousness.
Tendrils of guilt and horror were colonizing parts of this holistic structure, while singularity bits, defining who once was Moira, were being scattered away.

Submitting wasn't even an available option.

It was now doing its best to operate the tired freighter now. She already knew what its destination would be. Bornholm.

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