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The first bold rays of morning angled across her body, what with nothing but ocean to the east and the lazy slope of a deserted beach under her back.  Overnight, she and the waterline never acquainted, and for the failed drunken transit, later, she would curse her ineptitude.

Warm sun steamed sodden clothing yet she slept on, not quite ready to heed the natural diurnal call.  Her impaling of life culminated nine hours before, when her ass parked on a beach touched by random jumps of lightning and spray from a celestial firehose, scary forces to anyone intent on life and comfort.  Decoupled from her source of strength through an instantaneous loopy act, she demanded an unadulterated smiting.

Judged irrelevant by the haughty sky, Rory sought an alternative demise in a litre bottle of Cuervo Gold, not bothering with her extravagant pocketed accessories of shot glass, baggie of lemon wedges, and disposable saltshaker.  The Cuervo cap flung away on the hard snap of fingers, its renewed need not anticipated.

Impatient stars, ever fastidious in timekeeping, burned through the last wisps of exiting storm with impatience, their distant and proud display mocking her wish to abandon the universe.  Defiant in pleading for natural judgement, Rory diverted attention seaward and pulled from the inverted bottle, once, twice, and until she swallowed enough liquid to poison her body into oblivion.

Morning beachwalkers spotted Rory at a distance and stopped once they ascertained a human shape.  Not long after, uniforms swarmed over Rory, the first employing chemical means to roust her.  Awakened but benumbed and outside the sphere of comprehension, Rory stared not at the attending army but at a passing catamaran, the formal spoken words of importance in another place at another time.

“Rory Anne Callahan, you have the right to remain silent…”