I haven't slept all night. It happens more than I can control. This morning, when I drink my daily cup of coffee, I cannot help thinking it may be my last. When I look at my reflection in the white refine bathroom, I almost feel pity for the murderer in front of me.
Grief has gotten the best of me, over the years. Dark circles decorate my eyes in the most unflattering way. I shouldn't be surprised. I don't sleep, therefore I look tired. My face is thin, and unhealthy, though that was due more to the lack of food. My hair makes no sense. It has grown considerably, and the natural blonde has taken over the fake dark red. That makes my blonde waves fade with long red ends. It looks like my hair is stained with blood, and I cannot look at it any longer.
I prepare my equipment. I take a bag, in which I put all the knives I have collected during the Falling Month. A first aid-kit, some food, water, warm clothes. I look over at where my gun is hidden in the pantry. I hesitate. I end up taking it too, but promise to never use it. I shall never use a gun again. If I am to die, then so be it. But no gun shall fire from my hand ever again.
For what seems like hours, but is really just minutes, I stand still in the stairs leading up to the gates. My hand trembles as I push the buttons on the secret code to open them. I have to remind myself what my father always said : you are here. you are ready. I am here. I am ready.
I push the final button, knife in hand, a scarf masking the low part of my face. My hair is tied, my backpack is tight on my shoulders, my shoes firmly planted on the ground.
I am here. I am ready.