She had the gun against her head. It was cold, hard, and terrifying. The bore was continually moving against her skin, her hand was shaking. She had held it to her temple before. She had intended to pull the trigger before. She wanted to pull it now. She wanted to so desperately. She needed to. Just to ease the weight off her chest. She had to, to stop the pain in her lungs. It was the only way for the tears to stop running down her cheeks. She had to pull the trigger and prevent her outright sobbing. If she pulled the trigger, he wouldn't be here.
Romeo wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be here, lying on her lap. He wouldn't be here, pale as her wedding dress. He wouldn't be here, unmoving. He wouldn't be here, silent. He wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be dead.
If she pulled the trigger, she would be able to see him. She could see him as he was. See him laugh, smile, see him vibrant and joyful. Hear his voice talk to her. Hear his heart beat in his chest. Feel his slightly chapped lips against her own, his arms wrapped around her waist. Taste his lips, mouth, skin, and have it linger on her tongue. Smell him without the sent of this dreadful poison.
She would be able to be with him. They could be together, for all of time. No parents, no family, no violence, just their love, just them. Nothing would be in their way, and they could do whatever they wanted. They could play till dusk, and love till down, and sleep only when it suited them. She wanted it back. She wanted their love. She wanted to be whole, and have her heart placed back safely inside her chest so it could soar when she saw Romeo. She wanted the warmth again, his warmth. The warmth from his lips, the fire in his eyes, and the heat of their bed. Their love made her put the gun to her temple. She would be in bliss if she pulled the trigger, she would be alive again. Their love made her throw the gun away.
The clattering of the gun hitting the aisle floor was accompanied by her howl of pain. She buried her face into her hands. She rocked back and forth, sobbing, trying not to fall apart entirely. she couldn't fall apart. Not now, after all this. "I was going to tell you," she cried to her dead husband, it was all she could do to not choke on her own tears.
She had only found out the day before. She had been so shocked she had hardly believed it. She remembered that distant joy and glee as if it was a lifetime ago, and not a mere day. It hadn't stop her. It hadn't stopped her from doing this to herself, to him, to them, to fate, to love. To love, where had he gone? She collapsed onto his chest. She fisted her hands into his shirt. Her entire body shook with her sobs. "Why did you leave me?" she asked him.
His chest was no longer warm. It was no longer comfortable. It was too silent. "I want to come with you," her words stopped for pitifully long moments as she choked back screams of wrath and suffering, caused by fate, by life, by love.
"I want to see you so badly," she whispered once she could. The tears stained his shirt and rolled off his skin.
She took his hand. She held it for a brief second against her cheek. For that single moment she wished achingly that it would move, and hold her again. It did nothing, so she placed it on her stomach. "But you've kept me here."