What Dreams Do
Despair. Pain. Lonliness. Fear. Hopelessness. Heartbreak. Death.
She digs her fingers into the soft soil, staring bleakly ahead. She's mumbling the word 'gone' to herself, over and over. The headstone smirks at her, gloating with it's victory hanging over her head. She pulls her now dirty hands away and stares at the ten small holes she's made.
Thunder bangs in the distance, shouting it's anger for all to hear. The storm is rolling in fast, but she doesn't care. It hadn't been sunny since his death, not to her.
She curls into herself, eyes never leaving the stone. His body lies six feet beneath her, not at all like the intimacy of the last time she had been above him, when there had been nothing between them but lust and need and love.
She finds it unfair that she only had three years with him. His older friend had been with him since he was seventeen, but she had come into his life late. She had only just penetrated through his joking demeanor so he would tell her much more, exposing himself emotionally. He had found his way into her mind and her heart. He knew what irritated or pleased her. He had been a sort of life preserver when everything else around her was an anchor.
She's almost afraid to reach foreward, but she does. She holds her fingers against the gentle carvings adorning his grave, slowly tracing them.
The rain starts then, splashing down on her with as much force as possible. The shock wakes her and she finds herself tangled in blankets, a warm body, his warm body, breathing quietly besides her. She sighs, pulling the blankets loose and placing them back over them both. She mumbles words of thanks and love before slipping off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Anguish. Terror. Guilt. Blame. Depression. Heartbreak. Death.
He's crouched besides the monument to her life. She had been his only motivation after he had exposed his true self to her, but she was gone. He mutters to himself that he should have been there, should have taken that bullet, that torture, that death. But he hadn't. She's in the ground now and all he thinks is that he's to blame.
He's angry and depressed and altogether heartbroken over the loss of whom he had believed was living perfection, a true Aphrodite. She had stayed by his side even though he was a theif, and could be considered a murderer. She had believed his day-to-day thoughts were important, that his opinions were worth something more.
She balanced her beauty with her ability to use a gun, and brought both together when she popped up from behind a crate and fired into a man who wanted both dead.
He lifts his head, concious of the fact tears slide down his face. He whispers her name, filling it with guilt. His last attempt to ask for forgiveness was hopeless. He could never forgive himself, let alone ask others to.
He squeezes his eyes shut, remembering how scared he'd been when she had been near that grenade, how angry he'd been at the man who did it and himself. She had survived that. But she couldn't survive the torture.
He fumbles at his belt, trying to find the holster for his gun. It's cold in his hands yet burning hot. He brings it closer to himself, to his own forehead. He'd rather go how she had. Let the enemy take him and torture him to death. But he can't wait. He pulls the trigger.
At the sound of the bullet, he wakes. She's besides him, hair messy, surrounding her head like a golden pool. He pulls her against him, holding her close and letting the dream leave his mind. She nuzzles against his neck and he maintains his hold on her, refusing to let her leave his arms as he drifts back to sleep.