The scent of roses has morphed into the stench of death.
I stare down at the blood gushing from her wounds, at the life stubbornly leaving her body without pause or second thoughts.
The red color is marring her fair skin, painting rivulets down her arms and legs and contouring her soft face.
Her eyes are open, but she’s not looking at me. Their blue is blank, vanished, already existing someplace else where I don’t belong.
I cradle her head in my arms, gently stroking her dark brown hair. Lifting a wet strand, I inhale deeply, searching for what’s possibly my last fix of roses. It doesn’t matter if they’re thorny and would prick me in the process. The method holds no importance to me as long as I get things done.
What greets me is the furthest thing from roses. It’s not even death. It’s worse.
Nothingness.
Numbness.
A place where she can’t and won’t feel me. Where she ended everything just so she could seal her heart and her soul.
Just so she could…disappear.
I sweep her hair away from her face and brush my lips over her forehead. “I’ll find you again.”
People say death is the end.
For me, it’s only the beginning.
