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When I slept, I hoped to hear your sweet voice. You could only appear in the misty sweetness of my dreams, and so my cold hand would reach out for something that would dissolve into the dark right away, longing to be made warm again by the gentle grasp of your own. Therefore I couldn’t help but smile at you, you who was just a spirit of what used to be, you with your horrible beauty that bloomed and shriveled like a flower. Yet I opened my eyes, as I have always had to do each morning I wake, and I mourned that my love could only appear in my sleep.
When I saw the light of your face on that flashing screen, the dullness that overcame your eyes, I was plunged into a deeper misery. The single tear that streamed down your face, only to be forgotten in the mere minutes until the next horror that prevailed, were still raw and glistening as you breathed your last. Watching you, who I had grown up with, who had humored me while I was still ignorant to the cruelty of this world, smiling in your last moments, tore me apart from my insides out. I was overcome with a dark and somber sorrow, watching you with closed eyes, as you painted the floor in that cold, wet red.
When you reached out to me, a warmth overcame me — a feeling that I could finally grasp a piece of the world I used to live in, only to be drowned in that chilling feeling again as blood washed over the only happiness I had left. Deaf to the cheers surrounding me, my own tears mixed with the red of blood dripped silently onto your pale face as your hand grew colder in my own. And I knew then, that never again would we be those small children, staying silent as to not get caught. So even as you breathed your last acquiescent breath, I knew you wanted to live until the end, and I could do nothing else but stay by your side as you stared up unseeingly, the once childish and innocent face I knew now cruelly stained with sweat, blood, and the tears of my own.
My naïveté was lost, and with it, my only friends, in a singular blink.