She lay in the darkness, cold inside with the warmth of her blood across her skin. Her fingers pressed against the floor. She wanted to move, to go to him, but she couldn't make her body work. There was too much pain.
She begged, hoped, prayed that he was breathing. She couldn't tell from the angle where she was. His back was to her, punctuated with exit wounds from the bullets. His hair lay across the floorboards, a dark halo for her guardian angel.
She made her fingers obey her mind, and tried to claw her way towards him. She could almost feel her body tearing as she dragged her bodyweight across the floor with her hands. She just had to touch him, just once. She had to know.
Sirens moaned in the air, finally coming to her aid. It was too late. They were always too late. She stretched out to him, her fingers straining for just an extra inch, just a fraction further. Her fingers brushed his back, and then she knew. She curled tightly on the floor, curling around her pain, and her tears ran down her face, scoring lines in her blood.
Her angel was dead.