<strong>Roderick, Saturday Night</strong><br/><br/>"Jen," she said simply, a crooked-teeth smile slipping over crimson lips.  Her broken fingers attempted to force open her purse, managing to slide it open to reveal the shattered device which used to be a cell phone.  "Oh, my gosh...I...I can't remember his number!"  Frustration and self-deprecation rang through her words.  "I just plugged it in the day we met, and..."<br/><br/>Something dark and wet splashed out from her right eye, staining her cheek.  "Poor Johnny...I guess it's for the best.  He wouldn't want me anyway, not like this, not if he knew..."  Her eyes drifted down to see the horrible mess that her body was in.<br/><br/>"I was supposed to meet him at La Maison Colline on 54th street."  She seemed to grow weary, giving in to her pain and accepting her fate.  "Tell him that Jen Conyers did love him after all, even if fate simply never wanted us to meet in person."  As the sounds of ambulance sirens rang their way closer, louder with the cries of dedication to save the wounded, the walking corpse finally collapsed, all sense of wrongness and unnatural existence fading from her body.