The Further I Fall
You're dead. Gone. And the more I think about it, the further I fall into this apathetic oblivion.
The numb rage I feel means nothing to me. My thoughts are no longer my own, but ours. Your voice fills the vast expanse that has become my mind. If I ever think rationally, I know that it cant be you. You're dead.
I watched in slow motion as that bullet ripped through your stomach. The blood took a moment, but it came. In mass amounts, it came. Soaking your light blouse a dark crimson. Your hands had come to rest over the wound on their own accord. They tried, futility, to desperately stop the rapidly expanding stain; brought about by the steady flow of blood pouring from your abdomen.
Thinking back, the words I should have spoken never passed my lips. Instead, words of useless reassurance and never-before-expressed love were gliding smoothly out of my mouth. I should have... you don't need me to tell you what I should have done. You already know what I should have done. It's over and you're dead because of my fuck-ups.
I keep falling into this feeling-less pit of alcohol-induced self pity. And the further I fall, the more you surround me. Is this torture because of what I didn't do? I did what I was able to! You're voice is telling me it wasn't my fault, but I know it was! If I would have only called...I know...you don't want to hear my what-ifs. I really don't like talking about them, but they plague me.
My what-ifs plague me night and day. Because you died in my arms. I held you. I sat on my feet, my knees bend in front of me on the dust covered floor. As you lay haphazardly across my lap, with my left hand over yours, pressing lightly on the wound and my right hand supporting your head, you looked into my eyes.
The slight movement of your lips told me all there was to say. You loved me. What-ifs are always going to be there. You bled out in my arms.
You're dead. Gone. And the more I think about it, the further I fall.
The end.