Since the real goal was fiction

Liz looked straight ahead as she walked the sidewalk towards Mt. Vernon Avenue. The night was bitter, and the wind was lonesome. She felt as if she had been walking in the cold for ages. Had it only been an hour? She was always walking on this dark, cold night. It was quiet. Few cars passed. It must have been a dream. The struggle, the screaming (was that her?), the knife, the blood. She was going to prison. She knew it. They'd catch her. She tried to think of a story. She tried to imagine hiding away, creating an alibi. Who could she trust? An owl swooped ahead of her leaving a giant oak for a smaller undefined tree. She watched its thick body rise back up in the air. She had never seen an owl in town before. What would prison be like. She was already steeling herself for the beatings, for being someone's bitch. The word made her cringe. They were going to eat her alive. But she'd take it. She'd get by. In the end, almost anything is bearable, she thought. Oh why, had she picked up the knife? Why had she opened her door? Her heart? She knew better, she knew. The lights of Mt. Vernon were shining down on her. She kept walking straight. She'd keep walking until some closure was found. There was nothing else to do.