I drink because...because. Because every time I close my eyes I can see the gun, chest level, her eyes, mad. I keep the music on because every time it stops I can hear the screams, and Harrison screaming over them. Sure enough, it's a lousy way of living.

It doesn't save me. I close my eyes and I am back there. I can feel it now, and I try and struggle so vainly to get away but I can't help it, and I am there, and I can see everything -

We'd traced her to this place, were looking for her when the bomb went off and killed all those people. There were people dying, screaming as they were burned all around, and I was with them, screaming for Ana, looking at the dying faces with equal horror at their pain, and relief that she wasn't among them.

And then - just like that, she was. Ana was there, but not like I'd imagined. She was a part of the whole - no, she wasn't, not Ana, not mine -

Her feet, her chest, her eyes. Hello, dear. And then, so simple, there was a gun, pointed at me. Snapping, crackling madness in her eyes: Hands up.

Then minutes ticking by, each one an hour, just watching her, the slow smile across her face, looking so like Ana, but so different.

Harrison, dragging himself forward, his legs a mess of blood and bone, screaming over the others, screaming kill her, she's dangerous, kill her before she kills you, kill her, kill her and my hand, my own hand, the blood the blood the blood