I remember the first time I felt happy. The first time the emptiness inside me was smaller. A small seed had taken root in my heart, and slowly, month by month, began to grow into something bigger.
I met her at work, she was an intern in blood spatter. I was to take her with me whenever I went to a scene and show her what to look for, how to find even the smallest drop of blood. She was pretty, even I could tell that. About five foot eight with short, dark brown hair and eyes as blue as the Caribbean ocean. She laughed a lot, always seemed to be cracking a joke at someone or something, especially when at a crime scene. She was fascinated by blood, almost as much as I am. She fascinated me.
It started out small, we would get a drink after work occasionally. She was new to town and didn't have any friends. It was expected of me, to take care of the new girl. Then we would go to dinner, then a movie. Finally, she told me she loved me. I felt something that day, a missed beat of my heart, a slight quiver in my stomach. I though I just had the flu.
Finally, we made love. It was amazing. I never knew something could feel like that. She said it was because we loved each other.
Some months later, I had noticed she wasn't feeling well. She would get sick at the smell of bacon, something she normally loved. She told me it was because she was pregnant. I felt it again that day, my heart skipping a beat. The so-called butterflies in my stomach. I was going to be a daddy.
She called me today, someone had broken into her house and she was hiding. I called the police, hoping they'd get there on time.
The blood was beautiful, staining her porcelain skin.
I couldn't feel it anymore. My heart beat on rhythm, my stomach was still.