She presses her knuckles into her eyes, against the pressure building in her skull. She feels the hot tears welling, the veins in her temples beginning to swell. It burns as the tears seep out and trail down her face. She bites down on her lip, hard.
She won't scream out loud, but she can hear it echoing in her head. Goosebumps prickle up her arms. She can't silence the sound, the cry of anguish, of fury and pain. It sounds almost animalistic, like a howl, and it pierces her mind as if a searing bolt of lightning.
If she could lay her hands on him one more time, if by some miracle he rose from his sleep, she would surely send him back to his grave herself. With her bare hands. She pulls her fists from her her face and pries her trembling fingers apart. She stares blindly at the bloody gouges in her palms where her nails pierced the flesh.
She doesn't feel the physical pain, the sting of her wounds. Flashes of a similar time ravage her memory, of a time when she didn't feel. It was an existence of emptiness, cold and lifeless in a shell. She had found her way back to the living, crawled through nightmares on her hands and knees to the distant light she had lost. Now, even in death, the bastard was dragging her back.
This time the scream is real. Her hands clench back into fists and she hurls herself to the floor, to her knees. She presses her knuckles to her temples, harder this time, and her aching lungs heave.
The cries give way to sobs.
The sobs give way to silence.
And in the end, her foggy gaze rests on the fresh grave. Her face is pale and wet from the tears, her hair disheveled and her eyes rimmed in a sore red.
She feels empty, like all she had been was torn from her body with each sob until there was nothing left; nothing further to poison or rip away.
She could tell people it seems unreal, but it doesn't. It feels all too real. The memories were real, before they were shattered. The man was real, before he put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. Her happiness was real, before it was reduced to broken shards.
That single bullet ended a whole lot more than one man's life.
She won't scream out loud, but she can hear it echoing in her head. Goosebumps prickle up her arms. She can't silence the sound, the cry of anguish, of fury and pain. It sounds almost animalistic, like a howl, and it pierces her mind as if a searing bolt of lightning.
If she could lay her hands on him one more time, if by some miracle he rose from his sleep, she would surely send him back to his grave herself. With her bare hands. She pulls her fists from her her face and pries her trembling fingers apart. She stares blindly at the bloody gouges in her palms where her nails pierced the flesh.
She doesn't feel the physical pain, the sting of her wounds. Flashes of a similar time ravage her memory, of a time when she didn't feel. It was an existence of emptiness, cold and lifeless in a shell. She had found her way back to the living, crawled through nightmares on her hands and knees to the distant light she had lost. Now, even in death, the bastard was dragging her back.
This time the scream is real. Her hands clench back into fists and she hurls herself to the floor, to her knees. She presses her knuckles to her temples, harder this time, and her aching lungs heave.
The cries give way to sobs.
The sobs give way to silence.
And in the end, her foggy gaze rests on the fresh grave. Her face is pale and wet from the tears, her hair disheveled and her eyes rimmed in a sore red.
She feels empty, like all she had been was torn from her body with each sob until there was nothing left; nothing further to poison or rip away.
She could tell people it seems unreal, but it doesn't. It feels all too real. The memories were real, before they were shattered. The man was real, before he put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. Her happiness was real, before it was reduced to broken shards.
That single bullet ended a whole lot more than one man's life.
