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"You left a light on inside me." Her voice was soft, the texture like flower petals as the slow words slipped between rosy pink lips. The sound grabbed hold of him and gently turned his head as though she herself had lightly touched him; fingertips guiding his chin and face to her. His eyes met hers with just seconds to share between the dueling gazes, the spark that was once there lost; blown out by the cool wind that escaped behind the bullet's crisp release from its metallic womb. The tiny shadow of death slipped with the force of long subdued winds, the shiny bead splitting the air like an axe into wood.
In a fleeting moment his mind crept into the corner of his vision, the memory of what she used to be flashing before him and igniting the spark he knew could no longer and never again be born in the leaf green of her delicate irises. And in an instant they were gone; the bright green of summer fading to the ambrosial red of ending autumn as the wisps of compassionate life slipped from the dark, stillborn pits of the once beautiful eyes.
Like an anvil the bitter taste of what had just happened bit into him, teeth sinking in and striking a nerve like a violin bow striking the beginning note of some tragically unexpected and stingingly exquisite cord. The life that was once so close to his, though he doubtlessly refused to believe it so, was now gone; swept away like frail snow flakes in a deep, unforgiving, suffocating winter breeze.
Slowly, he let his gaze drag from the tiny reddening dots that danced and swam down the wall were she had just stood, to the paling, broken body that lay on the dark and dirty floor. Again his mind dared to trick him, his eyes creating a tiny branch of white silken life that grew like a budding tree from the hole that consumed what was once her chest. A small tree; the life slipped away after growing tall and beautiful, torn away as he blinked away the glorious image to be met with a sinking, deformed shell of what he once loved.
The bitter sweet scent of full awareness stung his in nostrils like rotten milk and he knew. The tiny, pained, and exasperated voice in the back of his hollow conscience, that voice he know acknowledged as having belonged to the woman who had been standing before him, whispered and whimpered. It told him and he knew. It was he who had made her the empty shell she was now and it was him who encouraged the delicate and tender vine of her finger to slip around and choke on the trigger of the gun that now lay by her lifeless form. And it was he who quickly and sorrowfully realized the greatest loss known to be graven on the walls of a man's heart.
A/N: Hope you found it interesting.