As I watched her filling syringes with short-acting barbiturates in the dim light of her underground abode (which was actually more of an abyss), I could tell that she was slowing down. She had exhausted her arsenal of "good" ideas, and seemed to be experimenting with a pathetic reservoir of twisted concepts that were marginal at best and becoming more drearily confused as the weeks progressed. She was intelligent enough to be scared (hence the needles); but, at the same time, she was almost ready to act out of sheer boredom, quite possibly making another one of those horrendous mistakes to which she was so prone. Meanwhile (and not unexpectedly), I was more than a little disappointed with the final enactment of our singularly peculiar arrangement, and contemplated whether tempting fate in such a blatant manner had been anything less than suicidal. She picked up one of the syringes, making a lame attempt to conceal it beneath black fingernails (glossy, but ever ragged). "I'm going upstairs," she declared hoarsely, without even looking in my direction. "And I would like to think I can trust you without resorting to artificial means."