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She is lost. She is changing. She is losing herself to Helené, to the tea parties and the blood stains and even her nightmares aren’t safe from this new her anymore.
After she shoots the man with the star, she excuses herself to ‘freshen up’ back at the house; she stands in front of the mirror for too long. She doesn’t break down like she thought she would, just looks at the woman in the reflection - Aurora feels like someone not even deserving of death, but Helené looks like she just got back from an exciting adventure. She feels vomit rising up in her throat, and turns to empty her stomach in the toilet. She sits there, retching, miserable, horrid - she doesn’t know who this war has made her anymore, but right now, she despises this woman with all her might. A woman who would kill an innocent, wounded man in cold blood - for no reason than an agenda.
She takes a mint, and dabs water along her neck, and walks back out into the bloodshed.
She stumbles through the day, smiling and laughing and praising the Reich, and it all comes crumbling down as soon as she steps foot in the forest.
As soon as she sees Alfred, looking like he’s been shattered apart - because of the same thing she’d done, hours before.
“What happened? Tell me,” he asks her with moonlight and too much hope in his eyes; but they are becoming monsters, Aurora and Helené both, and whatever is left of just her refuses to do this to him, too. So she leaves, and she feels the crunch of the leaves under her stilettos, and she thinks of the days of army uniforms and comfortable shoes and knowing what, exactly, she was fighting for.
She goes to Faber, because she is lost and she is losing and he is every part of her that she’s begun to hate. When she kisses him, it feels like finally accepting what she is - a monster. A murderer. She pushes him away, still feeling the burn of the scotch. She despises herself. She despises them both.
As she walks out into the abandoned street with smudged lipstick, cold hands, wet eyes - she is grateful for the first time for Sinclair’s order to end things with Alfred. Because she has never met anyone whose being embodies innocence and goodness more than him; and she has finally realized that she is everything else.
She walks around the city, down the streets with stars on them, whispering. Je suis désolée, je suis désolée, c’est ma faute, c’est ma faute. Until the moon disappears and the sun touches the skyline, and her whole body is chilled to the bone. She returns to her flat and curls up under the covers. Clutching them to her chest like maybe, by staying tucked underneath her blankets, she can purge this darkness from her soul. Maybe if she stays here long enough, she’ll wake up and realize that this was all a dream. That the war never existed in the first place, and none of the people she’s loved and lost ever even knew her.
She falls asleep eventually, to the soundtrack of screaming and pleading, and someone shouting orders in German. And herself, begging as she pulls the trigger again, again, again.
Je suis désolée, je suis désolée, c’est ma faute, c’est ma faute.