A/N: I know. Repost on a new account... I'm switching fully over to this one.
Blood.
It was everywhere.
All over her.
Her hands. Her shirt. Her pants.
His blood.
It was his blood that coated her.
She could feel the silent tears as they trekked down her cheeks, the one thought rebounding through her mind.
His blood.
Her mind was her worst enemy.
Fire was all around her. Clogging up her throat and making her eyes water and burn.
The smell of burning flesh and singed hair reached her nose. Vaguely, she realised it was coming from her.
But that didn't matter.
He was in there.
She kicked open the door, ashes and burning bits of wood falling on her skin.
"Booth!" she screamed, her voice hoarse.
The fire crackled, dancing and twisting around her.
"Booth!" she cried again, hoping for an answer.
Her foot caught on something and she tripped. Her left palm rested on a piece of a charred chair. The white pain forced a tear out of her eyes, evaporating quickly in the heat.
She turned to release her foot from whatever was on the ground.
It was all blackened... and burnt... and bloody.
But it was him.
"Booth," she crawled to him, cradling his head in her lap, the gash along his hairline still oozing crimson liquid excessively.
"We've got to get out of here," she told him.
She gripped his arm at tightly as should could without causing him pain, she hoped at least, that it wasn't causing him pain.
There was a hiss of air, and then blackness.
She shuttered, pressing a hand to her mouth in a futile effort to stop the impeding wave of sobs that always followed the nightmare.
Every night for the past 3 years she had nightmares.
Nightmares about him.
She couldn't save him.
She never did.
She tried to brush the tears from her eye.
Her hand traveled across the ripped and ruined side of her face. Scars.
The firefighters. They had found her, clutching his body weakly.
2nd and 3rd degree burns covered almost 50 percent of her body.
His was burned beyond recognition.
Or so she had been told.
There was an explosion.
The shrapnel had sliced the right of her face open, leaving the left side intact.
The spider web of thin scars soon melded together as she allowed her finger to travel down to her neck.
And she hadn't even saved him.
This was her reminder.
Everyday she had to look into the mirror and see herself.
Ugly.
Ruined.
Stained.
Worn.
Shattered.
Broken.
Lost.
There was no hope for her anymore.
Her light at the end of the tunnel had gone out 3 years ago.
When he died.
There was no hope.
He didn't feel much pain.
He was probably dead before you got to him.
So she had been told.
But there was hope.
It was her.
And then he died.
A part of her had died with him.
His God was supposed to protect him.
That should have been her in the fire.
Not him.
Her.
But he was dead.
She wasn't.
It was so simple.
And yet, it wasn't.
She had never told him.
Never would be able to tell him.
3 words.
And she couldn't say them.
Not anymore.
3 syllables.
They would never pass the scarred lips.
Never.
A word that she had become so use to.
Never would she laugh with him.
Never would they share Thai food again.
Never would they solve another case.
Her life was full of nevers.
Because he was her life.
With him gone, she was only a shadow.
A puppet with no strings.
A singer who had lost her voice.
A fire with no air.
And soon enough, she would go out like a candle.
Gone.
Forever.
Maybe she would see him.
She hoped so.
Maybe then she could tell him those 3 words.
I love you.
Maybe someday.
