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Her hands were limp.
The blood was everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on my hands, on my clothes, on my face.
"Rue?"
No answer.
"Rue, can you hear me?"
No answer.
There would never be an answer.
She was dead.
And I had killed her.
"You said he was waiting."
No answer.
"You said he was safe."
No answer.
"You said—"
I looked down at my hands, and they were red, and the blood was warm, and I couldn't remember deciding.
I couldn't remember anything.
"Rue—"
Her face was shifting.
Blonde.
Brown.
Red.
Faces I didn't recognize.
Faces I did.
Batch 39.
The girl who wasn't there.
The woman in the mirror.
Me.
I was looking down at my own face.
Pale. Still. Eyes open, but not looking at anything.
"You're dead."
