When it's gone, her face is crammed against her knees. Self disgust still claws in her stomach, and it's nothing like Vaughn. She doesn't know what to do with the feeling, even when it begins to fade along with it's hallucination. The contempt is palpable, it tastes like failure and loss. Something bitter that she doesn't deserve to swallow past. Something she should choke on, wallow in. Distantly, the witch is aware that her cigarette as burned down to it's filter, now scorching her fingertips.
The pain brings her back to herself. It's a different pain than the stitches that are not in her chest, but she feels for them anyway. Vaughn drops the cigarette and lifts her eyes with hesitation. She's still alone in the stairwell, and that's the only source of favor she can hang onto.
She's in the ninth floor stairwell, not in some strange bed. Not being watched by Vlad, and not thinking of Jane.
And God, she doesn't want to acknowledge whose memory that was.
She doesn't, and she won't. Vaughn staggers up from her crouch, frantic to leave. This stops now, she doesn't want anymore.