Dalton

They tell me I used to love the color black.
There are many things from my past that I hate.
Myself and the dark color surrounding me are the two things leading the pack right now.
People whimper and cry beside me, and I’m just numb, so broken that my pieces can’t combine enough to form wetness in my own eyes.
I deserve this.
I deserve watching the love of my life with her ashen face and hands crossed on her stomach in constant repose as the preacher talks about her devotion to life and helping others.
I deserve the looks from her mother and father that speak of the million ungodly things they wish would happen to me.
I deserve the blame my own parents planted at my feet for my involvement in the steps that led up to today.
I deserve it all.
The torture.
The accident.
The getting my heart ripped from my chest because of an undiagnosed brain bleed that snuffed out the life of the most beautiful girl in the world.
She was fine when I left the hospital that day. Even her mother assured me she would be okay.
She didn’t deserve this.
She didn’t deserve the monster that tormented her daily.
She didn’t deserve to suffer at the hands of an idiotic boy and the army of bastards willing to hurt her at his command.
She deserved the world, and yet she gets a wooden box and six feet of dirt, all the while I’m left on earth without her.
I can’t do that.
That can’t happen.
Our story doesn’t end this way.
It should be me in that casket. Me leaving this world behind so she can shine in the bright light of the sun and live her life to all its glory.
It should be me.
It should be me.
It should be me.
My hand trembles as I reach into the inside pocket of my sports coat.
I’m not scared or afraid of what comes next.
It’s the anticipation, the thrill of joining her that makes my blood sing, the unused energy making my fingers twitch.
July sun glints off the barrel as I hold my salvation to my head and pull the trigger.