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The body slumped against the pole supporting the robin blue cubicle curtain would be of a somewhat 30-year-old woman, her ink-black hair cascading around her shoulders, twirling in harsh curls and strands that used to be proper and even beautiful though now matte and no longer fluffy. The mouthwash drained the life out of her hair as well, eyes dull with pupils rolling up as if she couldn’t yet die without justice, refusing to shut her eyes, to give up. Her belt seemed awfully loose now, at least compared to the usual where it’s cranked almost up to the maximum to support her… midriff. Right hand loosely holding a teal bottle of painkillers, the left clutching her barely bulging abdomen as blood leaks out between her legs…a dark crimson, purer than whatever she might’ve vomited up, brighter than whatever stained his own hands.
Why? Just- why? He was going to fix everything. He was going to fix everything, why did she choose to leave them?!
or
If Jimmy somehow broke the door down with the axe and "saved" Anya before she's halfway to meet Christ
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