Isabella had just killed her doctor. Deliberately.

Highly illegal, out of character, and a deadly sin, she was surprised to find that it hadn’t felt too bad.

‘Not even particularly messy.’ she thought as she wiped the few blood splatters from the floor. They glistened in the morning light. Beautiful, still red with life, they bloomed like viscous Rorschachs.

Perhaps she was in shock. She looked herself in the eye in the mirror, “Well?” she asked.

“You’re free.” she thought back. A momentary tiny smile.

She studied her reflection. Taller than average and intensely clad in self-styled retro-futurism, she looked the same as usual. From her disco-shades and her silver nails to her white patent Chanel boots, she was image primed, image coated, customised and custom-fit. A soul-moulding image. No discernable shock.

So she finished clearing the office. Boxed up the doctor. And sold him as a mystery object down on Lot 41. Here she puked up the baloney and triple-barrelled pills he’d fed her, kissed her neurosis, and inhaled.

What she wanted now was a drink.