She sits in a smoky bar with a cigarette in her right hand. She takes a drag, and stares at the glass of amber colored liquid sitting on the bar in front of her. The bartender glances up at her. She looks strung out. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she looks as if she hasn't had a good meal in a year. Her collarbone sticks out. She's a sad soul, sadder than most of the people he's seen in recent history. She doesn't take a drink. She watches the glass as it sweats. She wears a short dress that reveals a little too much cleavage.

She wears heavy eye makeup to accentuate her hazel eyes. She extinguishes her butt in the ashtray, and proceeds to reapply her lipstick. It's a scene that the bartender has seen far too many times. A desperate woman, past her prime. A woman who has spent her entire life beaten down by life. She spends her days sleeping, and her nights making a living the only way that she knows how. The bartender turns towards the sound of a customer calling for him.

She looks down at her left hand, where a ring used to be. There is still a tan line on her finger from where it once rested. She tries to ignore the demons as she stares into the glass of gin. She's been here in this bar every night for the past several months. She's been in this city for a year. She finds herself being sucked in to all of it. She can feel herself being enveloped by the city of sin.

All of her choices, good, bad, and ugly have lead her here. She begins to wonder if she doesn't deserve this life that she is living. She searches for a moment of relief in all the wrong things. She seeks it out in the bottom of a bottle. She's tried to find it at the end of a needle. She has tried to medicate the emotional agony that she feels, but nothing seems to work.

Nothing makes her feel whole. Nothing eases the pain of the past. Nothing brightens her future. She grows a little bitterer with each passing day. All of her plans have been shot straight to hell. Everything she dreamt of, all of the things that she imagined are gone. She lives a life that she never could have envisioned.

Life has made her hard. It has made her cold, but it hasn't made her unfeeling. Every single that passes she hopes to feel nothing. Instead she spends her time painfully aware of the gaping hole in her heart. The anger, and the sadness make her want to drink again. She wants so badly to put the bottle to her head, and pull the trigger.

She hears footsteps approaching her, but she doesn't look up. She keeps her eyes on the glass in front of her. She can feel the warm feeling of the alcohol hitting the back of her throat. She can feel herself being sucked in. She can feel herself being dragged back to the bottom of the hole she's still climbing out of. A man in a uniform takes a seat next to her. He shoots her a smile, but she seems unaffected. She ignores his relentless flirting.

"What are you drinking?"

"None of your business."

"Let me buy you a drink," he insists.

"I'll pass, Sargent Smugass."

"That's a little harsh, don't you think. You don't even know me."

"Who said that I wanted to?"

"The way your dressed says that you want someone to get to know you better."

"You're a pig."

"Let me buy you a drink."

"No," she tosses a couple of bills on the bar, and hops off the barstool that she's on. She turns to walk away. She feels fingers around her bare arm.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

She clenches her jaw, and her nostrils flare. "I'm going home."

"Not so fast," he argues.

"Who the hell do you think that you are?"

"I am a Sargent in the United States Marine Corp. You will pay me some respect."

"A Sargent?" She laughs, "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Neither do you," she retorts, "I'm above your pay grade."

"You're just some hooker who has seen better days."

She frees herself from his grip, "I'm your worst nightmare," she tells him, and then turns to walk away.

She has played out this scenario a thousand times in her mind. She's gone over all of the scenes. She has considered every action, every consequence. As she exits the bar, and heads to her car she pretends not to notice the sound of footsteps trailing behind her.

She stops in front of a white GMC Denali, and pulls her keys out of her purse. She unlocks the door. She opens the door, flinging it open with force. She hits the Marine in the head. He stumbles back, nearly falling onto the pavement.

He looks like a jarhead with nothing going on between his ears. He's barely five foot eight. He compensates by being overly muscular. She theorizes that if he flexed his muscles he would bust out of his uniform. He recovers quickly, and yanks her out of the car by the head of the hair. He slams the door closed, and shoves her up against the car.

"For a street walker you have a nice ride."

"You know what they say about assumptions."

"No, I don't."

She rolls her eyes. He wraps his hand around her neck. She struggles for a moment. She knees him in the groin, and he lets go of her.

"That was a mistake," he tells her as he lunges forward.

She spits in his eye, "Your whole life was a mistake."

"Stop struggling, it won't end so badly for you."

"Go to hell," she stomps on his foot. She keeps provoking him.

He swings at her with every intention of giving her a black eye. Her reflexes work more quickly than his. She ducks, and his hand connects with her driver's side window. He recoils. His nostrils flare, and his face turns bright red. He reaches toward his belt. He removes a weapon. He presses the nine millimeter Glock from the holster on his belt. He presses it to her temple.

"Shoot me now, or you're going to regret it," she gives him the opportunity.

He cocks the weapon, his finger hesitates outside the trigger guard. She slips her gun out of the holster on her thigh. He places his finger on the trigger. She draws quickly. There is a crowd of people in the parking lot by this point. She can hear the sirens coming towards them. She watches as his finger caresses the trigger. She looks into the eyes of a coward. She raises her weapon and presses it against his forehead. She squeezes the trigger before he can muster the courage to pull his.

The gun fires, and the bullet rips through his skull. His blood spatters on her face. He falls backwards onto the ground. As she stands over his lifeless body she feels nothing. She feels no sense of relief, or remorse, or regret. This isn't the first time she's taken a man's life, and felt nothing. She watches as the police cruisers pull into the parking lot. She clears the bullet from the chamber, and removes the magazine. She places the weapon, and the magazine on the hood of the car.