Regret is something infinitely bitter. Regret leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth; makes her wrinkle her nose and furrow her brows, eyes watering as she searches frantically for something to wash away the taste.
( She's choking and gagging and all she can see is red on black and black on red and glass-eyed stares as the shadows lingering in the darkness leers and mocks her and - )
She brings the bottle to her lips and grimaces at the burn it leaves in her throat.
How many times has she done this, she wonders.
How many times has she resorted to drinking herself into a stupor or drowning herself in a flurry of work and activity so she could pretend it never happened? How many times? Honestly speaking, she's lost count.
They tell her she's done nothing wrong; tells her she's simply doing what she needed to do ( and every time they would miss the way her smile gets a little more strained and her eyes get a little more dim and all she does is count her regrets ).
"Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"
The sound is sudden, startling, and her voice echoes through the empty room. The man she loves – loved – smiles sardonically at her with a tilt of his head, saying nothing. She grunts in frustration and sighs.
"No, I guess you're right. We are what we are, after all – no point in questioning why."
He does not grace her with an answer, expression carefully blank and she smiles wryly.
( He grins at her easily, showing her a picture of his younger brother. She croons over it and wonders if that's what he looked like as a child as well. When she voices this question to him, he looks so offended she can't help the laugh that escapes her. )
"We could've made it work, you know. Could've gotten a happier story." She whispers softly, sad and quiet and sullen. His expression softens and he reaches out to her.
She closes her eyes, and she's about to fucking lose it – at him, at herself, at their circumstances.
"Look at me now. It's been years and I still see you everywhere; I still pour two shots when I drink and have conversations with a ghost that isn't even there."
Her angry outburst is loud in the otherwise silent room and she sighs, opening her eyes. She looks around and sees no-one but herself in the room. No ghosts, no unspoken conversations; just her.
"Guess I really did love you, you dumb bastard."
Silence was her only answer.
The phone rings, and she rises to her feet with practiced ease.
( And if the first time Bianchi met Lambo she couldn't look him in the eyes, well. Well. Who could blame her when all she saw was the little boy Romeo once showed her a picture of and crooned over?
Who could blame her when she took away possibly the only person that loved the five-year old fiercely? Who could blame her when all she saw was the consequences of her actions? Who could blame her? )
Regret is something infinitely bitter, Bianchi learns.
