Apres moi, le deluge
- who. Justice // - what. Justice makes a choice to forget the person she use to be, and everyone that comes with it. // - when. Afternoon // - where. Via Loca; a local night club in Cleveland. Very naughty, lots of perverts; not a good place for the kiddies. // - progress. Incomplete, unless no responses. // - locked. Open to anyone; really could use the distraction.

I must go on standing / You can't break that which isn't yours / I, oh, must go on standing / I'm not my own, it's not my choice

She felt confused and disillusioned as she drove towards fifteenth street. Streams of carbon dioxide spilled cancerous smokes from the sputtering muffler; due to overriding the engine. If she bothered to keep at the speed limits, she would of heard insipid profanities, ridiculing her outrageous driving skills. The mocha tendrils whipping against the air, chaffing at her skin, should of heightened a sense of thrill. As a human, she had some novelty of purpose, but the components no longer fell in the equation. Azazel's notion of plans were prudent, and their acquaintances ceased any official standards. She felt out of the loop. Completely out of touch with reality. There seemed to be insufficiency that could of been developed after imminent death; unavoidable. She frequently stared down at herself in mirror, admiring the new pair of eyes that replaced her old ones, but at the same time, felt completely foreign and oppressing. She preyed the irritating submissive ardor would fade away, gradually over time, but at times felt like tearing her heart out—that didn't even belong to her. She shuddered. How desperately she pawned herself in distractions; marketing new apparel to fit her new body, killing out of pleasure instead of defense, and fucking—well that stayed the same. She even stole herself a red Volvo to pacify herself, and for a moment she felt free, until she remembered that she wasn't. Her heart beating, reminding her of forgotten causes, gradually increasing in pace. When she gazed back at the mirror, she was no longer greeted by green but instead onyx whirlpools. It was growing more and more difficult to control her impulsive, being a woman of rage, bafflement, and vengeance. Or maybe it was simpler then that. Onyx wasn't just a colour anymore, but the only strand of authenticity she had left; the only thing that was her. But she was full of impatience, every day becoming more and more time consuming. Ironic, for a woman who use to dread time. Now, time was all she had.

Be afraid of the lame / They'll inherit your legs / Be afraid of the old / They'll inherit your souls

She parked and walked along the sidewalk of a condemned warehouse, feeling the enormity of reality. She looked at the sidelines, stripped of agriculture, buildings bunched together, rubbing shoulders like passengers in a crowded transportation vehicle. Every single building vacant, unfilled of any life or animation, colour pigmentation stripped of completely. She entered the warehouse, but her blood felt cold the moment she stepped pass the threshold, like when you first dip your toes in the pool and instantly wince from the arctic temperatures. The police equipment that still scattered the place—caution tape, numbered plates, dust remnants used for detecting fingerprints—suggested how profitable this investigation was. It was nice to know someone bothered enough to collect all the evidence and identify the body, even go through the troubles of hosting it on the local news. But that didn't mean she would be remembered. She brushed her privy fingers along the stucco walls, loitering around the perimeter and staring at the middle of the floor, as if her cremated body was still scattered ceaselessly across the floor. Screams invaded her mind, causing a sudden ache of hysteria that made her jolt and seize her hand away from the wall, as if she had been burned and the feeling of the flame she had finally came to realize.

( after me comes the flood )