I loved her once (or twice)

He wept, wept for his love, for his stupidity, for every time he had taken advantage of her. He didn’t deserve to love her. He looked down into her eyes, the pupils completely dilated, the whites bloodshot, one of his tears landed onto her cheek, he brushed it and her own tears away, his father spat on him as he was being dragged past. He closed her eyelids and leaned down to press his uneven, cracked lips to her perfect, smooth, blue ones.

He awoke, since that night it was all he ever thought about, dreamt about, he spent every waking moment in a drunken haze. Scared of the beautiful, sacred memory of the one he loved. He sat, shivering, not cold shivers, more terrified shivers, terrified of the pain he might feel if he were to try and spend a day without his true love sober…shivers. It had never occurred to him that she might actually die, protecting him nonetheless, but alas she died painfully, the only woman who could ever love him. Damn her and her goddamn sacrifice, damn her and her goddamn death. He had walked (well half walked-half crawled) to the table. The tiny, flimsy, wobbly table had one thing upon it, besides empty bottles of alcohol. A knife.

He had flashes of memory, flashes of her hair, her eyes, even her smell. He dreamt of being with her, having her, holding her, being inside her. He loved her, only her… but now she was gone. It was like a part of him had shrivelled up and died, like he was half empty. He could feel her absence slowly setting in as he sobered, he had drunk himself dry and the only salvation left was her letters.

Love, life, letters and a ring, that was all that was left of the last year. He grasped the small silver band in his trembling fingers and imagined it on her hand, on her long thin fingers tipped with perfectly manicured nails. He wished for, longed for her touch, the gentle caress on his disgustingly pale skin. So undeserving of her touch, yet so craving and heeding for it. He took the ring from its resting place on the table and threaded his small silver chain through it before replacing the chain to his neck. It felt cold, like her lips had, cold and morbid. He desired naught but her touch, her lips, her skin. It wasn’t like he was obsessed, more possessed; possessed by the way she looked, she felt, possessed by the sheer thought, the memory of her.

Nothing soothes his soul better than sleep, in the past he slept everything off. Everything. Now, as he slept he was haunted, she was gone, not all the medicine in the world could bring her back, and he was still in love with her, in love with a memory, a dream, a corpse. He had to stop thinking about her but not even alcohol could do that, only time would, he supposed. But it was agonisingly slow.

He moved over to the bed, it was soft and collapsed slightly under his weight. He lay down and had barely shut his eyes but it felt like her image was already burned into the inside of his eyelids. He ran into the bathroom and threw up into the, now familiar, white, porcelain bowl. He felt he knew every inch of this toilet off by heart after the time he had spent over it in the last month. Standing back up he ran the water before washing his hands and mouth then dabbing a towel to his face. Back onto the bed, between the blankets and warm. Closing his eyes softly, silently he drifted off.

Her face was looming in the darkness, “I fucking love you” she muttered, then exclaimed, “You cheated on me,” before saying, “I hate you Anthony, I hate you.” She ran towards him and threw herself in front of the bullet. She screamed silently, gasping and twitching on the ground, her airways had closed and she couldn’t breathe.

He screamed, sat up in bed and grasped for the silver chain. He held it, like a Christian would a cross, for protection, or to try and feel close to the one he loved. It was dark, 5:00 in the morning, he almost threw up then and there when he realised that it was the next day. The fourteenth of September, the day of her funeral. He would attend.

It was stupid. In fact he had not seen a more stupid service. She wore a white dress, was surrounded with white roses rather than red or black and a horse drawn carriage? He was appalled at the few people there, what he could only guess as her family and himself. He went over to her parents and greeted them, he shook their hands and introduced himself, and rather than a “sorry for your loss,” he received a sucker-punch in the nose delivered by her father. ‘I probably deserved that’ he thought. He went away after that, he watched from a distance…behind a tree. The cars left and he walked over to her white marble headstone 'Bella Ramon, Beloved daughter, friend and fiance'…Fiance, it couldn’t be, could she have possibly said yes, he looked down into the hole, a beautiful black coffin lay at the bottom of the dirt pit, it was at this point where he realised how far away they really were, six feet of air and a coffin lid between them but they were still worlds apart, and he had to let go. A black rose appeared on the coffin and Ben walked away.

Back in bed, back to sleep and back to his nightmares.

“Fuck you, you don’t take what you want, you selfish bastard, I hate you! How dare you, you-you arrogant pig, the world doesn’t revolve around you, or me, or anyone. You know what? Just fuck you, fuck you bastard, I hate you, I never loved you.” She screamed, lying in a puddle of her own blood gasping, screaming for air.

He leapt out of the bed and dressed, he went straight to the cemetery.  He walked over to her tombstone and carved into it with his knife, “I love you and I’m sorry, your fiance.”

He had to find him, find Frankie, find him and kill him.

"What the hell are you doin' here Tony?"
"I'm here for you Frankie, you killed her. She's dead and it's your doing."
"I'm sorry Tony, it was meant for you, she wasn't meant to take the blow, you was supposed to die."
"Why?"
"You were gonna leave us, the boss didn't want to hear it, we're family here you know, I was only supposed to shoot you in the arm or somethin'...as a warnin', no one was supposed to die."
"But she did, and now you have to pay."
"No Tony, it was an accident, I didn't mean to."
"You're catholic ain't you?"
"Yeah,"
"Doesn't the bible say, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, shouldn't it be a life for a life?"
"That's not justice, that's revenge, it's a sin."
"Then I guess I'll see you in hell Frankie" he drew his nine millimeter and turned it to his best friend and pulled the trigger. He was kind, shot him in the head, he didn't let him suffer like she suffered.

He went home that night, more memories, more hatred, more blood on his hands. "I hate myself Bella, I'm sorry," he cried to the ceiling and in that instance remembered why he bought the knife, he slit his wrists and waited for death.

I loved someone once (or twice)
She was pretty, really nice,
The world stopped when she smiled at me
She lit the way so I could see
But then one day, the room went dim
The only one to blame was him
I pulled my gun and shot him dead
Don't know what was inside my head
I lie and cheat and steal and lie
I was never a nice guy
She loved me still and I had friends
She was the means to the ends
One day I asked her to be mine
Always thinking she'd decline
Happiness, "Yes" she said
But now my darling baby's dead
I loved someone once (or twice)
she was pretty, really nice...