It was simple. It was all planned. All she had to do was pull the damn trigger. The well thought out ending of Jenna was, as most other things in her life, meticulously well organized. Like pages from the brown file folders at work, the images flipped through her mind. Put on the evening dress, hat, warm winter coat, gloves. Leave. Return hours later. Take It out. Point it towards the abdomen. Press the right index finger to the trigger. Toss It on to the floor several paces away. Wait until loss of consciousness. Wait. But she couldn't do it. Everything else about her meager existence had been so well planned, so carefully articulated, so efficiently executed. But it seemed this last task brought her too close to the edge of a precipice she truly was not ready to face. The force of something inside her bubbled up, obscuring her vision as she reeled, and fell to the floor. She did not notice it, but Rich did as he walked in. As she pumped round after round into his torso, he saw a tiny glimpse of what should have been nurtured; a slow smile, a gleam of resolute satisfaction.