"Would you mind talking a little faster?" I interrupt Thief's explanation about which course I should take to learn computer programming.
"What? What are you talking about? I'm speaking at my normal speed—the same speed you used to tell me to slow down," Thief protests.
"I know… I'm sorry," I sigh. "Maybe because I haven't slept for nearly 72 hours."
"WHAAAT?!?!" Thief's response is immediate this time. "Why don't you—"
"I can't sleep," I cut in, defending myself before she can go off on me.
"Why? Something wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Are you fighting with that missy again?" she presses.
I exhale slowly. "She doesn't live here anymore."
"That's why…"
"Hey… I told you it would end once I got the mastermind, didn't I? I kept my promise."
"Score…"
"Don't pity me! You said it yourself—it's for the best."
"I did. And I still believe that. But give yourself time to mourn."
I let out a hollow chuckle. "What do you think I've been doing for the past 72 hours?"
The truth is, I don't even know if what I've been doing qualifies as mourning. I didn't shed a single tear. I just felt… hollow. Ever since I left her sleeping soundly in her bed that morning, it's like a part of me went quiet.
I wanted to call her the next day, but I deleted her number the second I got in my car. Erased all her contact records. I almost drove to her office, but I forced myself to stop. I kept repeating that this was for the best—that it had to be done.
But was it?
That thought has been gnawing at me, circling my mind like a vulture. Did I do the right thing? Was ending it really the best choice?
What if this becomes my deepest regret? The one that will send me to hell?
But then another voice counters, No, being with her would have been hell. She would never accept me for who I am. She would try, maybe, but eventually, it would destroy her. That would be a different kind of hell.
Then again… what I'm feeling right now is hell, too.
And the worst part? My brain won't let me stop. It keeps looping through the same thoughts, the same questions, over and over again. I've drowned myself in five bottles of pure vodka—one and a half liters each—and still, I'm wired. My alcohol tolerance has always been high, but not this high.
Instead of getting drunk or drowsy, my brain feels charged, like someone plugged me into a generator and cranked it to full power.
It won't stop running.
Not even now—because suddenly, my mind fixates on something else entirely. What is my deepest regret?
Is it… leaving Jennifer?
I shake my head violently. "No!!"
"What no?"
I blink. I'd completely forgotten I was still on the phone with Thief.
No. When I was in hell, in that torturing room, my deepest regret wasn't leaving Jennifer. It wasn't losing her.
It was not killing the scorpion.
That's it. That's the answer. I have to kill the scorpion.
"Score?" Thief calls out, sounding worried.
"Thief… can you add a scorpion variable to my algorithm?"
"Uh… I already did?"
"I know, I mean… a specific kind of scorpion."
"What species?"
"I…" My voice falters. "I don't know yet."
I hesitate before continuing. "Ever since the helicopter accident, I've been having these dreams. I keep getting stung—not by an ordinary scorpion. It's different. Smaller. More slender. Its skin is yellow and semi-transparent."
"I can run an image search, see if I can find its species," Thief offers.
"You would? Oh, thank you, Girl…"
"But first," her tone sharpens, "you need to rest. You have to force yourself to sleep."
I roll my eyes. "Alright, Mom."
"I'm serious! Do you know a person can die from sleep deprivation in under a month?" she scolds.
"Okay, okay, I'll try," I finally relent, smirking despite myself.
Thief isn't convinced. She keeps lecturing me, forcing me to promise at least five more times before she's satisfied enough to end the call.
I drop the phone onto the table, letting out a slow breath.
Sleep.
A thought forms in my mind before I can even attempt to sleep—I should search for the scorpion myself.
I mean… I'm the one who truly knows what it looks like, right? And, like Thief said, all I have to do is look it up on the internet.
How did I not think of this first?
I scoff at myself. My brain has been running nonstop for days, yet it couldn't come up with something this simple? Useless.
I power on my laptop, open a web browser, and type scorpion. I switch to the Images tab, expecting a flood of results. And I'm right—thousands of pictures appear.
To my surprise, many of them are yellow. But none of them match the one from my dream.
I keep scrolling, my fingers clicking impatiently down the page.
Still nothing.
I refine the search—types of scorpions—only to be met with thousands more images, all similar yet different.
Still, nothing that looks like it.
I exhale sharply, leaning back. If I can't find it, how can I expect Thief to?
But then again, she's Thief. She doesn't just follow instructions—she finds ways to make the impossible possible. That's why I love working with her.
Thinking about her reminds me of her rebuke.
She's right. I need to sleep.
With a sigh, I get up and head to the bathroom, grabbing a strip of sleeping pills. On my way back, I dim the lights in the living room.
My bed is out of the question. It's too cold. Too empty.
Without her there.
I settle onto the couch instead, inhaling deeply, trying to shake Jennifer from my thoughts. It's pointless, but I try anyway.
I pop a pill and swallow it with the vodka already on the table. Then I lie back, staring at the ceiling.
Thirty minutes later, my eyes are still wide open.
I take another pill.
Lie down again.
I focus on my breathing—inhale, exhale, slow… steady…
Still, sleep won't come.
But I know the pills are working. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounds faster—no, not faster. My brain is slowing down.
I sit up and grab another dose. This time, I take two at once, washing them down with more vodka.
Still too wired.
I turn on the TV, switching to a music site. Searching for something—anything—to help.
Sleeping music.
Soft, soothing hums fill the room, wrapping around me like a lullaby.
I lie back down, closing my eyes, surrendering to the sound.
For once, I stop thinking.
I let the music pull me under, my body sinking into the couch.
Eventually—whether minutes or hours later, I don't know—
I finally sleep.