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She walked out the door, with such grace and ease. Floating past the clock like the world was her’s.
Three hours later the police came and told me the heart-rending news. She was shot on the street, a moving vehicle drove past her and shot her, and dragged her into their vehicle. They mutilated her face, scratched her arms and legs, and cut into her stomach.
I stopped listening after they said those words
“we found her… Rob, we found her”
They said it with such disdain in their voice, they sounded like they were just hit by a car, but, I got hit by a semi.
“We need you to testify, Rob, we need you to testify for her. You always said everything was for her right? Just one last time. Please.”
I was shaking violently, their words are swarming my head. All I could think about was her last words, the ones I thought I could hear a million times again.
“ I love ya’.”
Yes, I loved you a million times again, I wish I could go back and continue to love more than just your memory. I wish I could’ve said more, done more. Just more, thats all I ask, just let me do more.
The police officers left, they left with their muddy footprints at the foot of my door. I spent hours that night trying to scrub that memory out of my carpet. All I can see now is the outline. The outline of the people who told me of her death, the outline of the people who asked me to face her captors and killers.
The second week after her death, whiskey was my best friend, as I cried to sleep at night with bottle of vodka in my hand. The third, they came to pack up her stuff, leaving the walls bare, and my heart cracked. The fourth I was out of alcohol, I thought that drinking would help the emptiness in my stomach. But, fifth day I was in darkness, my friends tried to cheer me up. All they thought was the amount of days we spent just looking at each other, they thought just of helpless romantics. The sixth week I went to the bar, like clockwork, every day they would push me away, just to see me back in 5 hours. The seventh week was my worst. In stories I’ve learned that drinking would blind a person of their emotions, that it would being relief to a mourning person. But somehow, today, it did the opposite. All I could think about was her last day. The yellow dress with sparkling daisies on it. She was clutching a silver hand bag. Her dazzling smile as she walked out the door for work.
Night was the worst. The nights not spent in the bar, I spent looking at my ceiling, counting every second as my clock ticked.
Beep, bEEp, BEEP.
My alarm startled me, it had only been 678,987,011,563 seconds since I turned off the lights. My alarm should go off 130,837,004,090,1231,4569 seconds after I turn off the lights. This can’t be my alarm. The distance of the beep, made it sound like a watch, like a timer. It stopped abruptly- like someone turning it off.
no, No, NO.
Seven minutes have past, they think I’m asleep, they think I can’t hear the hushed voices, saying what happened. I can’t decide if these people are here for me, or here to help. I can’t tell if this is night or day, I can’t tell, I can’t tell, I can’t tell. My alarm finally goes off. They’re voices grow louder, louder, louder. A dark hand covers my mouth and is dragging me out the door. My arms flailing around, fighting- but I don’t know what for.
I start yelling
“IT’S ALL FOR HER!! It’s all for her, It was ALWAYS FOR HE-”
But then it all goes black.