It was quiet. Very quiet. I looked at him. He was still. And it was all my fault. His eyes were closed.
I called out to him, but I knew he wouldn’t answer. I looked at his hand. It was as still as the rest of him. I reached out to touch it. It was still warm.
I stroked and played with his fingers. I looked at the way his scar stretched across his knuckles when his fingers moved. That jagged flaw was old and discolored, but I loved it. It reminded us of our past. It reminded us of what we walked away from. What we wanted to forget about, but we couldn’t.
I flipped his wrist up and stared at my name in beautiful, black script above the words forever my beloved in Latin in a similar, but smaller, script.
I wanted to erase that permanent mark from his delicate, pale skin, pulled taut over his strong muscles.
He promised I’d grow to love it as much as he loved me. I couldn’t. Seeing it there mocked my soul and my heart. It said that I owned him, but I didn’t want that. He deserved his own life, which he hadn’t had for a while.
I held his hand; folded it into my own. A sigh escaped my lips.
At the sound of the jingle of house keys, I let his hand fall back to his side. I rose to my feet and walked out into the night, leaving behind my lover, dead on his wife’s bloodstained kitchen floor.