Kate sat, hunched over the dining room table, drinking in the candle’s flame like wine. The clock on the wall screamed the late hour, but she ignored it’s plea. Insomnia was the least severe symptom of her grief.

And then there was John, stabbing at the uneaten food on his plate with his fork. His normal eloquence had vanished, in fact he had not spoken at all in the past three weeks. Kate desperately missed their delicate and intimate conversations, which were now replaced with a code of silence. A poisonous fog had settled over the whole house and he was choking on it.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke suddenly, but he showed no response and continued to stare at his plate. “John!” She shouted louder, still he paid no mind to her desperate cry.

She sighed and looked down at the source of this void that had formed between John and herself. The rather large hole in her chest where the kitchen knife had punctured her heart was consumed by a flower of red blood.