Blood drips from his fingers. He kicks her aside, showing no guilt. His eyes scan the room; a photo, a postcard, a CD on pause. He presses play on the CD player. Falsetto tones fill the room. He jumps as his name is called. She is still alive. She mutters a plead, telling him she can’t hold on. He lets the voice from the player overlap hers. He knows she is dying, but he doesn’t care. She deserves to die. He looks down at her, drenched in blood. He spares no regret for her pitiful stance. His words attack her ears. Her eyes dilate with fear. She does not want to die.

Destroying puppet strings to our souls

There are no marks visible. All that is to be seen of her pain is the blood staining her figure. It is obvious that he hates her. Her heart pumps slower with the effort of keeping her alive, but she knows her last breath will be remembered. She will show him. Her heart gives out, her lungs throw away her last breath, then silence.

On the floor lay a woman who died of a broken heart.