I heard her cries, as she died. The air smelled metallic, sharp and burning. But I wouldn't believe it; smells can be deceiving. Vivie told me so, the night I proposed. I was nervous to try food at a street vendor she brought us to, nervous from the smells. She told me not to follow my nose, though. She told me to follow my eyes. And my eyes always led me to her.
They did the night she died, too. Sure, I heard her cries, but I found her when I saw a glimpse of the beautiful light pink gown she had worn that night. She wanted to go to an art gallery, and I knew her work would be showing, so I bought us entrance tickets and took her out as a surprise. You could say her death was possibly my fault, if you'd like. But I'm past those thoughts now. My thoughts are just of her, radiant in her dress, smiling because she knew, before I said anything she just knew where we were going.
Champagne, the taste of her mango flavored lip gloss mixing with it on my lips, her laughter as she spoke with fellow admirers. She was always more social than I was, easily the extrovert of the relationship, so I didn't interfere. I'd catch her eye from across the room, and nothing could match her smile.
It brought me back to our wedding day, seeing her walk up the aisle, the sunset she loved so much reflecting off her eyes. She later told me how I reminded her of our wedding day too; A member, yet always apart from the crowd. As I said, she was always the extroverted one.
But back to her dress. A light pink, a vision with her dark hair and deep eyes. She had wanted me to match her but pink was never my color, so I let her choose blue instead. I am wearing the dress now, for the last time; it's served its purpose. She was going to be the inspiration to a new character, a new hero in one of my stories.
That transcript has been burned.
No, it was later that night. The gallery was closing, she wanted to walk around the gardens, I wanted to talk to the gallery owner; they were interested in one of my books. I told her to wait for me and we could go together, but she was too excited. She told me she would find me by one of the fountains and was off before I could protest, but I thought nothing of it. There were other people there, we were familiar with the town, and she was going to wait for me there. I smiled and she smiled back, and I kissed her forehead. She went off while I spoke with the gallery owner, and that would be the last time I saw her alive. Almost.
I was curt, I didn't let the conversation stretch. I was eager to go home and watch movies with Vivienne. She had wanted to watch an old favorite of ours again, do some baking, and I couldn't wait for it. I walked into the gardens, dialed her number, walking as I waited for her to pick up. Now, she doesn't have her ringer on. Ever. But she always had a bad habit of keeping her brightness up high. I walked farther as I waited for her to answer, and that's when I heard her cries. They echoed, and I couldn't tell where they were coming from, but my heart was racing. I yelled for her, dialed her number again, saw the glint of her phone's light off of some water.
I had stopped calling her at this point, running towards her, seeing the light pink of her dress, smelling metallic in the air. Then I saw the blood.
I couldn't say where the bleeding had originated, but I knew that her dress was pink, not red. It seemed to spread from her chest so I took my shawl, the one she convinced me to wear, and pressed in on her even though I knew it wouldn't do much. I brushed her hair from her face, trying to figure out what happened, but although tears fell from her eyes, she never lost her smile. She was trying to comfort me, to tell me that I was alright. But how could anything be alright? I dialed 9-1-1, begging for them to get here quickly, reciting to them the path into the gardens, choking on my own tears.
I begged her to stay with me, willed her to keep breathing, and her hand rested on my face. She wiped my tears away, smiling as always, promising me it would be alright.
I'm a writer. I had written the deaths of characters often, written scenes like this all too often. I knew how they ended.
I became frantic, feeling her blood continue to pump out instead of in, watching her grow paler. I could hear the sirens, hear voices, and knew they must be close. She knew they wouldn't make it in time.
I was clutching her to me now, kissing her over and over, salt of our tears mixing, screaming as paramedics pulled me away. I watched and begged and pleaded as they tried to help her, at least get her stable enough to move onto the stretcher.
The world went silent when they announced the time of death.