The ranch motel quietly stood along the outskirts of the Las Vegas city lines, along the highway desert. 

Unicorn sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes, massaging fingertips that traced over her brow bone. A flashback of her father pointing a rifle to her forehead as she slowly opened her eyes. "Wake up. You would be dead by now." Thanks, Dad. She forced herself awake.

No drugs. No alcohol. Not even coffee kept her up. Unlike people who reveled in staying up all night, as her father used to tell her,

"Sleep is a luxury."

Her problem was not falling asleep, it was staying awake. Not even one fucking joint. It sure would make her feel a little more normal. A little less like a machine and more like a human being that made mistakes. 

No escape. She was painfully aware of every minute of every hour, each second that passed by, one more protest of each of her sore muscles. She could feel each part of her body like an unseen bruise, strangling her psyche slowly into submission. Looking around the damp, mildew smelling room as the night wore on, the only light illuminating was the street lamp from the parking lot; and the cactus neon sign that flickered past the curtains.  

Papers and clothes littered all over the brown berber carpeted floor. She didn't give a fuck. She lived in hotels and motels. 
Even housekeeping wasn't allowed in. On the floor was a wiped out open cereal box, it's remaining stale bits scattered everywhere.

She picked up the crumpled bag and ate the last crumbs of dry cereal. Dinner of champions. Her desert was a mustard bottle that she also chucked on the mirror stand.

Animal. 

On the end table next to her weapon, was a scattered pile of bullets. Ironically, despite her motel room being utter chaos, she walked naked with her pistol and thick hunting knife to the small tiled bathroom. Water was her favorite way to stay alert and stay fresh. As usual she  lay the knife and pistol on top of the bathroom window sill. As a sign of extreme precaution, she would leave her shower curtain a third open and didn't care if the water leaked out into a pool on the tiled floor. Psycho ain't got shit on me. 

She dried her self off, wrapping the standard over bleached smelling motel towel around her damp body, grabbed her weapons and placed them on the bed as she got dressed. Time to go.

She delicately squeezed the trigger of her rifle with her index fingertip. In that split second let out a slow methodical breath. She felt the butt ram into her already bruised shoulder as her target dropped like a silent sack of dirt.