You're all alone now.
Everyone you've ever known inside these teal and gray walls is either dead or just gone, leaving nothing behind but whispers of I love you, Booms, and I'll come to see you soon, eh? but you've come to learn that they never do.
Doreen, Bea, Maxine, Franky, Sonia.
You can't go outside anymore without seeing her face, red ribbons and flowers and meaningless mementos framing the one and only person that's never given up on you.
She wanted to go so bad. She wanted to go so, so fucking bad.
That is what you tell yourself in the dark, in the quiet, in your very worst moments where you sob your throat raw into your pillow, hitting yourself in the head and calling yourself a murdererpigfreakdumbarse and youmisshersomuch.
A part of you still seeks for retribution, for revenge against yourself for killing her. You deserve to be struck down dead into the ground, you deserve to go to hell and stay there like you're not in hell every day of your life.
But you've got an extra twenty years.
You've got your punishment. You've got crushing, burning loneliness and a permanent pit in the bottom of your stomach.
And yet somehow, it's not enough.
You took a mother from her family, just like Sean Brody did, just like Bea did (but you don't dare think about Bea like that.) You reckon she's still haunting the showers.
There is nothing to absolve you of your guilt, the guilt you feel for killing her or the guilt you feel for grieving.
You are the one that placed that pillow over her face and held it still until her breathing stopped, what right do you have to miss her, to cry into your pillow over her night after night after night until one of the screws tells you to shut up?
Franky once told you about needing to let go.
That's what everyone in your life has done, one after the other until there's no one holding on to you anymore.
But you're just a stupid, bumbling, oafish fatarse.
Why would they love you in the first place?
There's only one way out of this.
You're not going to die a hero's death like Bea, bleeding from her own shiv for the sake of revenge, for the sake of her Allie.
You're going to die because you can't possibly live like this anymore, looking at yourself in the mirror and knowing there's a killer staring back at you.
Sometimes, you expect her to be sitting at the table, cuppa steaming next to her, arms outstretched, smiling bright as she says Hello, love with all the kindness in the world.
You remember when Bea tried to do this after her daughter died.
You had been horrified, of course, staring at her writhing, convulsing body and hearing her desperate gasps for breath.
Still, the word coward burned in the back of your brain.
When you wrap your sheet around your neck, you finally understand her after all these years.
It's okay, you think to yourself. You're doing this for Lizzie. You can't breathe anymore.
It's okay, it's okay, it's--