Black it was, the vile stuff that poured forth from my mouth and splashed in the toilet. The sweet, tangy ambrosia that had been mine the night before had turned black and diseased and hateful during the course of the day, during my sleep, bloating my stomach, now to be spewed forth in a raging gush of acid.

Boyd’s word came to mind. Murder. I had mur­dered Joshua; there was no question. I had not acted to ease his pain; I had not acted in carefree delight; I had not acted to please Her. There had been no musical pleasure, no warmth or friendly aftermath. I had sealed Her from my life and killed anyway. I had murdered Joshua, and in so doing had lain waste my own soul.

I lay my cheek against the stained porcelain and watched the thread of saliva that connected my lips to the swirling black mass in the water. My stomach continued to lurch convulsively with small dry heaves. I waited, beads of sweat cooling my skin as my breath echoed back from inside the bowl.

My stick-­thin arms were the same color as the toilet; they had not seen the light of day in a year.

I had renounced Her and yet continued to live in Her manner.

She was gone and Joshua was gone and I had no one, no one, no one.

No one except . . . the Boyd of my fantasies.

Depression and despair stiffened my joints. I rested my face on arms crossed over the bowl and felt the hurt from the inside out.

It was time to go. My time at Seven Slopes had ended. I would soon hear my footfalls on the highway again.

Slowly I got up, showered, and dressed warmly. What had happened here? It seemed as though the past year and a half had been no more than a weird memory. I had come to Seven Slopes seeking employ­ment, fun, friends. Life had been new and exciting. My future had been shining and filled with anticipa­tory delight, and now it was dark and ugly and frightening.

What had I done wrong? My intentions were good, at least they felt right; I had never wanted to hurt anyone, and look at what I had done . . . oh, look . . .

My knees sagged as I considered my life in Seven Slopes. It was as if I looked at it for the very first time. Had I never considered my motives before? Had I never been honest with myself before? Had I lied and cheated and sinned like this of my own volition all this time?

It seemed incredible.

And right now I had a choice. I could stay and be caught; turn myself in. Or, I could leave, straighten up, and try to lessen my debt to society by becoming a contributing member. The debate wanted to go on, but I had already made my choice.