I didn't mean to kill her.

The sentence repeated itself again and again in my head while my body froze in fear. Justifying, pleading. Her body in front of me, neck at an unnatural angle, her eyes staring at nothing.

I made her like that. She's dead because of me. I did that.

She'd laugh at me (I loved her laugh, I'd never hear it again) if I told her that she will be meeting her death in my hands. "Seriously?" she'd say (it sounded like mocking. No, no, it's all wrong. She never sounded like mocking). "Darling, you apologize when you run into an inanimate object. Also, you fold your undergarments. Forgive me if I don't cower in fear at the sight of you."

Well, you should.

And it's not even a threat. It's a fact, with the proof right here. She's still holding her paintbrush, hands still gripping tightly even when her body started to lost its warmth. Her dress ripped, blood (oh, lord, so much blood) was everywhere.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wanted to scream and sob but no sound came out of my mouth. I wanted to hug her, begging for her to forgive me. I killed her. She's dead. She'd never get to eat another piece of her favourite ice cream cake again, she'd never get to watch a Broadway musical live as she'd always wanted, she'd never get to finish her portrait.

Oh lord, her portrait.

It's half done, the sky blue and red, the man's clothing a rich purple velvet, blank canvas at the place where his face should be. Her last portrait.

And it's splattered with her blood.

__________

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you can take the darkness from rye but you can't take rye from the darkness -rye