The dusty and worn video camera emits a faint whistling as its internal mechanisms work together to slowly spin the tape forward.
Darcy leaves her chair and steps out of frame. The sounds of a phone call being made.
[Ringing]
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“I’m the one they’re looking for.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the one they want - the three recent events in the news. It was me.”
She leaves the receiver to hang from the wall.
“Hello? Ma’am? Are you there?”
Darcy returns to her seat - picks up the glass, throws it across the room - then grabs the bottle and takes several heroic swigs before slamming it back down.
She reaches onto the chair beside her, a .380 comes into view. She rests it on the table. A desperate, prolonged gaze into the lens.
“That’s all.”
Darcy lifts the gun, places the barrel to the roof of her mouth and pulls the trigger.
A few seconds pass and the tape runs out, the camcorder shuts off.

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