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She kills him again.

She never manages to detach herself, even though she knows better by now. He staggers toward her in a wrecked business suit, foot twisted and dragging, creating a limp. Dull eyes reflect the shadow of her, of the little girl in her arms who screams “Daddy!”

In another life, they were happy, married.

In this one, she raises her gun and fires a round into the tentacles protruding from his mouth. He collapses, again, always. Her fault. The little girl screams.

Her pretend daughter. Her fake husband. The blood-spattered family portrait glares in the background, his blood from her gun.