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She’s gone.
She’s really gone.
This is truly comical.
Pathetic, ridiculous, hilarious.
I can’t hold myself back the moment I see the blood on her pale, pretty lips.
I feel rage. Pain. Guilt. Anger.
I feel blood bathed my fists and bones crack beneath my palms and feet.
I hear a scream, my throat burning, not quite realizing it’s mine.
When I stop and break down on the floor, clutching her frail, delicate body to my chest. I wish to myself that maybe, if I cry enough, she can wake up and kiss me again just like our glorious wedding day.
She doesn’t come back though.
Instead, she lays limp in my arms. Cold. Lifeless.
I don’t realize there’s a figure standing in front of me. I look up, seeing a gentle man and her wife, his hair black, the top of his forehead starting to wrinkle and purple.
I want to punch him, seeing him happy while I’m here in misery. I want to kill him. I want to show him how I feel and spread my pain.
But when he kneels beside me and whispers ever so gently,
“She was a lovely woman. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I feel exhausted. I feel worn.
And for once, I feel less alone.