FanNation

This is just the 2nd part of a series of short stories I will be posting up about various people in various situations....Enjoy!!

Till Death

A white flash. Startling. Suddenly. And as quickly as it appeared it went. Did the bulb go out? Was it a brain spasm? She wasn't concerned with that, but in that split second, her mind tried to associate where did that white come from. And in the battle of mind and heart, she found a comforting resolution, whether real or not; the white was from her wedding dress.

She didn't have to do it, she knew that much. It wasn't as if some unknown force possessed her or she blacked out to awaken to the consequences. She was conscious. She was awake, but still she felt compelled, for her sake. Could anyone blame her? Would anyone blame her? Were the motivations right? Or was it the same feelings that were thrust upon her. Moments later, she pondered. She liked to think it was instinct, like that of a mother protecting her child at the sudden threat of danger or of that of a subconscious reflex like jumping out of harm's way. She liked to think that because it gave her hope.

She didn't have a child. She was still young. Just starting to taste at the different flavors that are life. But with a mind beyond her age, she daydreamed of mature things; her wedding, her husband, her children, her house, her happiness. But at times like these, dreams seemed impossible.

And so she lay still in a bed, not hers, but of someone else's. Not alone either, a man is on top of her, though motionless. Staring at the ceiling, caught up by the sudden silence, she hoped for what little was left to.

She hadn't planned like this. No girl ever does. No woman does. She had this Disney-like imagination of how her first time would be. She thought, if it didn't take long, it could even be in her honeymoon. How life and its future can change in a matter of minutes. And while she thought this through, a slow and single tear rolled down gently with no hurry down her face. She hadn't planned it like this at all.

The shirt and jeans she was wearing lay spread on the floor, or what remained of it. It was a beautiful shirt, flower patterns with soft light colors. It portrayed innocence, which much like her dream had been ripped apart with rage and fury.

Still without moving, she looks around the room. She notices that no lights are on, just a reigning blackness with an eerie mist of red. Everywhere she looks this smoke-like red follows. There is no light nor inside the room nor outside the window. And then she realizes it is not a smoke, rather a smudge, blood red. Blood that which covers her face.

The man is still on top of her and still motionless. But his reason for stillness isn't the same as hers, for he is dead. His neck is covered in blood and with it her face, neck and her exposed breasts, all from him however. He is still warm.

She's not bleeding, but definitely bruised in many places. She feels no pain however because her lack of movement acts like a natural morphine. Her throat though is hurt, and that she feels, for her screams were loud and many. That was before her mouth was duck taped, and it still is. She doesn't bother to take it out; no word will ever come out of it again anyways. That's when she heard the sirens.

What some would call instinct, reflex, meditated, revenge, subconscious, or conscious, others would call murder, victim, guilty or not guilty. She isn't a philosopher or a judge. She just grabbed the first thing her loose hand could get a hold of on the small cupboard next to the bed. Unfortunately for her it was just a pen. Unfortunately for him it struck an artery in his neck.

The sirens close in now. She doesn't fear being found guilty or not. She doesn't care. Nothing matters anymore. For what is it, compared to her hopes and dreams? Dreams that no longer exist and are no longer within her grasp.  Hope of which kept draining by the second. The man, the society, they took those away from her, and she is left with nothing; nothing to sleep and dream about, nothing to wake and hope about. No future left. Nothing.

The pen is still in her hand, and for the first time she moves, dropping the pen. On the cupboard was the duck tape and scissors the man used. She grabs the scissors.

She opens it horizontally placing it at the top of her neck.

The sirens stopped. Or at least she thinks so, and starts to hear knocking. It could be her beating heart, either way, in a while they'll both stop. The blood starts draining out of her neck. Slowly. Steadily. Leaving her emptier, physically and emotionally.

She feels lighter, much like in her dreams. Men in white appear. Angels or medics?

Calmly she closes her eyes, for but a few seconds to live her dreams.

In that moment she was a woman.

She smiles.

And through the duck tape mumbles, "I do."