Dear Journal;
I can't believe I'm doing this. If you asked, say, two weeks ago, if I would be writing in a journal, I would've laughed really hard and asked you if you've been sniffing anything lately. But there's no other way. I'm not gonna drain another bottle, because all that'll get me is a heavy hangover tomorrow.
It isn't gonna make me forget that she's….
No. She can't. She just can't.
But I saw the bullets leave the gun. I saw them pierce the air, disturbing the air around it.
And I saw them fly right to her.
"ZIVA!" I shouted. But it was too late. She turned, and I watched three large red spots blossom on her green long-sleeve tee. She crumpled.
I turned, and fired six rounds. William Goldberg collapsed, finally paying for the murder he had committed.
No, murders.
I dropped to my knees beside Ziva. I laid her across my lap. She was gasping for air. Gibbs already had pulled out his phone, and had called an ambulance.
I didn't care that blood was all over my hands and my pants. All I knew was that I held Ziva in my arms.
And she was dying.
"Ziva! Ziva!" I cried, grasping her hand, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Tony," she gasped, "I'm sorry. But it is my time."
"No, Z-Zi! You c-can't leave m-me!" I sobbed, losing it.
"Shh, my beloved. I'm sorry it must be this way, but you will be fine." She reached up with a trembling hand, and she wiped away a tear. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Zi. So much." I whispered to her.
"Goodbye, Tony." And with that, her chocolate orbs became glassy, staring up, past the stars, past everything in this world.
Gibbs ran over to me. He put his finger gently against the side of her neck. "She's….."
He didn't even have to say it, because I already knew.
I laid across her chest, and sobbed like a three-year-old, begging reality to tell me this was all a dream, a terrible nightmare.
But no such comfort came.
The loud sirens told me that the ambulance had arrived, but they were too late. Far too late.
She was gone, and nothing, no one could bring her back. Ever.
I couldn't lose her. It was like I said back in that Somalian prison camp. "Guess I couldn't live without you."
Because I couldn't.
I guess it's goodbye for now, but I just might write later. It makes me feel a bit better about it.
I love you, Ziva. And, if in any way, shape, or form, you can hear me, just know I always will.
-Tony D.
