“Darling, why are your hands purple?”
“That’s a very good question,” she says with the briefest attempts of a smile, but I can see her lip quivering, hands shaking.
“umm… the blood… it, ugh,” she tried to get it out but panic was taking ahold of her chest. She stumbled back, hands stained in murder. He knelt down to hold her as she collapsed to the floor. She was soaked in blood, some hers, most theirs.
“Do you hear that?” she mutters, brows furrowing in confusion “it’s lovely, the orchestra. Like the one back home,” she lifts a bloodied hand to his face, tears forming rivers that fall from her face to the place between her breast. “I miss home,” she whispers.
He cradled her body. Pale, perfect, insane. The room is quiet, like the dead. It’s unforgivingly cold and dark, the stench of death overpowering. Their blood, their beautiful purple blood, everywhere.
“It’s so bright,” the softest smile graces her lips.
“I know,” he whispers, pulling her closer to himself.
His hand finds the cold metal attached to his waist, pressing it to her inflamed mind.
“I know my love,” he says kissing her forehead, his own body shaking from the sobs that now fill the room. He shouldn’t cry. He does.
“I love you.”
His finger pulls the trigger.