Word:Picture
017 : 05
There had been so much blood. All over his clothes, all over the walls, all over her. The floor had been streaked with blood. The bedsheets had been stained with it, as had the curtains. It had gone everywhere.
All that blood. From him. That tiny bullet hole that had riddled it's way into her husband's head. And the screaming. She had not been able to stop. If she had, it would have never happened. If she had just kept quiet, all of it would be a terrible nightmare, a night terror. She had been to blame.
She had been able to recall their faces so easily, the memories crystal clear. He had been lent over her, begging them not to hurt her.
It had happened so fast. The quiet click of the trigger, and she had lost the person she loved most. One second he shielded her from them, the next he had been laying limp in her arms.
The young man, tall, lanky, with pock-marks covering his face, had rolled the corner of his lips into a smile. She had been disgusting, wanted to be sick. She pushed the dead body off of her, had begun heaving over the side of the sofa. She had not been able to believe what was going on around her was real, that her husband was actually dead.
It had been dark in the honeymoon cabin, the lights had been off, but she had been able to see the people going through her belongings – and his. Her eyes had flickered with rage, which had overcome disgust and the aching loss that had flowed through her body with each heave. She had risen from the sofa, had ran towards the nearest two people dressed all in black. She had only been a fingertips width away from them when she felt hot metal pierce her skin, drive deep into her flesh, somewhere near her shoulder blade.
She had tried to cry out, but it caught in her throat. She had fallen to the floor like a rag doll. The pain, from all of it, it had been too much. The edges of her vision had been obscured by blackness. With her last ounces of strength, she had found herself crawling to her husband, wrapping her arms round his, before she slumped into darkness, hoping – praying – she would never have to wake up.
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A/N - Hmm. This would be better, if I had more time to work on it. It all happens way too quickly for my liking, and is extremely short. This was also very hard to write, since it's in past perfect simple rather than simple past. I hope this clears things up in regards to the other parts. This was inspired by, but not based completely on, the shooting of two Welsh honeymooners in Antigua. They both have, sadly, passed away.
