Outnumbered. Jezebel stands on the ledge, hands fluttering up and down the slick chains. Outnumbered. She tries to breathe, but her lungs are collapsing.

The flavor of hospital-stale, taste of bitter pills and pomegranate streaked on the sheets permeates her stupor, glitterdust before her eyes.

Flash. She is back to the ledge. They dance around her, ritual motions, holding soft torches and reaching out to stroke her draining carcass. Jezebel leans over, testing the water. There is gulping sea bellow, and beyond that, empty. She will fall into the turquoise sheet and then past it, going going gone.

Outnumbered. She feels her arm, feels a slender IV coiling into her blue veins. The captors sway in and out of her wavering vision.

"Jezebel..."

"Jezebel..."

Over and over in her ears. Outnumbered. Dead and dying are not so different, she decides as she tips back, slowly. They are the taste of sweet blood in her mouth, the flavor of metal on her skin. She should have written a note, but time is compressing her.

"Jezebel..."

"Jezebel..."

"Release me," she says softly, then louder. "Release me."

The dancing stops. Torches burn brighter. The flames dart forward to scoop out her flesh. Jezebel turns and whirls, hot top caught on fire.

She never wanted to jump. Never wanted this.

Doesn't matter

doesn't matter

outnumbered.