4:29 a.m.
by Regina

It's 2:47 a.m. and he's awake and alone.

This isn't exactly anything new, he's become used to it by now. But it suddenly hit him just how alone he is, and how this time she'll never come back.

It's 2:55 a.m. and he takes a drink of Whiskey.

He had done so well the first time. He had done the things that Must Be Done, and then he had gone home and gotten quite drunk, quite furious, and quite violent. He had lost his security deposit when he punched a hole into the wall of the kitchen. He had even gotten up the strength to leave them all. To leave the people who reminded him of her every day. They knew why he was going. He was certain of it. They couldn't miss the pain in his eyes.

It's 3:23 a.m. and he's beginning to feel comfortably numb.

When he had recieved the call, he hadn't known quite how to react. First there was shock, then disbelief, anger, joy, and finally a crushing sense of urgency to be there to make sure, just to be sure it was true. Then he was, and she was in his arms, and all could think about was if she had always been so small. He supposed she had, maybe that was just another detail that had faded along with the way her eyes crinkled when she was going to cry, and the way her hands always gathered fists of his shirt when she hugged him. But they were back now. All the memories were back, and she was back, and so was he.

It's 3:36 a.m. and he's trying not to cry.

When he had left for the second time, he was sure she would never forgive him. But he had to. For her. For himself. So when he came back and she clung to him in that old familiar way, it had made him feel whole again. He was at his best when she needed him, he had discovered.

It's 3:46 a.m. and he's given in to the tears that are soaking his collar.

They hadn't been on the best of terms this time. She was different, so different. She was hard and cold and not at all the things that had always made her so special. She didn't need him anymore.

It's 4:04 a.m. and he's considering the gun in his hands.

She had died in his arms, with her hands fisted in his shirt just like always, and he had told her he loved her more than anything in this world. She had said she was sorry, and placed one bloody hand on his face, then she had died. The handprint is still there. He places his own over it and pretends he can still feel the warmth.

It's 4:13 a.m. and his hands are shaking, the gun knocking against his temple.

She won't be coming back this time. None of them will. It seems unfair and laughable that of all of them , he's the only one left. They were all so young. She was so young, and he had held her until she was cold and the color was gone from her cheeks, and then the coroner had made him leave her. He had explained that they were all attacked by a gang on PCP. The coroner had looked at him knowingly, with a sort of sad smile, and taken her away. She was the last to go. He had slipped off unnoticed, and came home. Wrote one last diary entry because old habits died hard and even if it was useless, she should be remembered. Took out the gun and the whiskey, and laid them on the table in front of the sofa. Her sofa. She was everywhere here.

It's 4:29 a.m. and he pulls the trigger.


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