I never knew that day would come. When we would be separated, when I would be on my own again. I remember thinking to myself when I first saw you, "It's her." I'm not the type to believe in falling in love at first sight, but when I saw you there, I fell so hard I'm still reeling. 

I felt so nervous when I was near you, when I first asked you on a date. I barely knew you, and here you were, making my knees buckle underneath me. Making me think of what I would say to you so you would smile. I never did that. Not in high school or college. Not ever. You were the first.

You knew already didn't you? I bet you could tell I was head over heels fore you. I was so happy when you said yes. I thought my heart would explode into song. And your smile, the way you looked at me. Your eyes, sparkling with the reflection of that ring. That ring your heart always desired, but your lips never said a thing. I wanted you to look at me like that forever.

I'll never forget those memories. Memories of you and me. You gasping for breath after I pulled you into the pool. You dancing in your pajamas while Frank Sinatra played. You on your fingers because you burned yourself, trying to bake a cake for our anniversary.

Those memories are all I have now. The only thing left of you. 

I still can't believe it. That day. It still haunts me.

Your spirit seems to be hovering next to me, but your body is in a cold coffin below the earth. Forever in the darkness, you don't belong there. You should be laughing, smiling, crying, anything but being in the darkness. You should be here, beside me.

I miss you. Do you know that?

I love you.  Do you know that too?

You always knew me so well.

I can see nothing but the blur of white and black. Only the piano is in my thought and the piano is in my focus. Fingers flying, I can see my hands enact some elaborate dance, chasing after each other. The sweet notes of hammer against string resonates harshly in my mind, like an old friend's greeting at a reunion. After pressing the last ivory key, I pose my hands in a flourish and wait for a dramatic pause. 

The bright lights zoom in on me. I stand up from my piano and turn to the audience. They are standing from their seats and clapping. Crying even. The red velvet curtains swoop behind me, veiling the instrument capable of evoking such emotions.

Was it that good? My piece? No. I don't think so. But they continue. I bow and depart from the stage, the spot lights. They are still clapping.

But I can't hear it. The applause, the yells of "Bravo! Bravo!". I'll never hear a single note, voice, or sound again. 

But I can still hear you. I always hear you. Your soft chuckles and laughter in my ear.

You did great honey! Look at them! They're crying because of you!

I can feel your hand on my shoulder and turn to see air. Nothing but a busy crew and dark shadows. Your spirit still lingers. Why? I can imagine your face as if you were right here beside me, holding my hand like you always do.

I walk to the exit. I'm done. This was my last. Why linger here any further just like you do?

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I know it's probably the producer or a fan, congratulating me on my success.

I look at them. It's the producer, as I predicted. He smiles and signs to me with his slender hands, "Good performance!" He smiles politely and eagerly waits for my answer. I give him a smile to send him off. He grins and walks off, to attend to other important business. 

Alone.

I walk outside, yearning for the still darkness at our home, only for the cool night's darkness to be interrupted by fans. 

Fans. They irritate me sometimes. Of course, they can be adoring but annoying at times.

A teenaged boy with dark locks comes up to me with a huge stupid grin on his face. He tries to speak to me. If he knew that I was deaf, he wouldn't be so adamant on trying to talk to me. But I let it go, I can understand what he says. Reading lips isn't so hard after a few months. You can get over the lack of sound somewhat, but sometimes, I feel like I can hear a faint ringing in my ear. 

"That piece! It was utterly amazing! I've never heard anything like that. So sad and yearning yet so calming and hopeful. What do you call it?"

I mouth my answer. Existence.

He gives me an odd look. I'm sure his brain is churning the gears, trying to connect the dots somehow. I give him a smile, just like with the producer, and walk off again, leaving him with the others.

Finally.

The small night breezes are soothing yet seem mocking. That night was just like tonight. Dark, with few stars out.

The street lamps barely give any light to illuminate the road.

I walk home. To our home.

Where I would return to a little boy who would be running around, crying for me to pick him up. But I would comply with his eager wish, hug him and his soft hair. Then I would turn around to see you.

You. Smiling, with an apron on, as you finished cooking dinner. You'd be whirling the spoon in your hand playfully, teasing me.

I smile and pick our boy up and kiss him on the forehead. He'd be beautiful. His eyes like your deep doe eyes but my sharp nose. His hair that feels as soft as silk like his mother's. He'll grow up to be like you: independent, willful, ambitious. He'll do great things later on.

I walk to you, slowly, not sure if this truly is happening. I open my arms to hug you, encircle you in my arms like I did so many times. Just then, I thought I could feel your warmth. Your arms around me. Your perfume that I bought you for your birthday and the same one that you always wear.

But it's only my imagination. He doesn't exist and neither do you.

Tears sting my eyes, I sigh and trudge over to my couch, passing the bouquet of wilted flowers on the table. The couch where we had our first kiss. It's an old ragged thing. The bright pattern is now faded and dingy with dirt. Threads sprout off in different directions and there are rips and tears now.

I slump into it and close my eyes, hands absentmindedly the seams.

Your face is burned into my eyelids. It reminds me always of that night. The night of the accident.

We were driving home after our anniversary dinner. It was dark out, with few stars out, but I would manage. I would always manage. You were so happy that night. You had told me you were pregnant. With a little baby boy. Our baby boy.

I placed my hand on your slightly rounded belly, to get closer to that other little soul in there. That new member of our tiny yet happy family.

Then all I saw was darkness. And red. Lots of red.

The truck never saw the car apparently. It hit the passenger side so hard, it crushed you. There was nothing left but the dripping of blood and your limp hand. It pooled around the battered car. So much red.

You didn't scream. Nothing. It had happened so fast.

I survived. They say it was lucky I survived.

But only on the outside.

I miss you too much. I feel as if every heartbeat aches for you, as if every breath rasps in my throat.

Before I met you, I wondered why I existed. But I found my answer.

You.

I existed to make you happy, make you smile, make you feel as if everything is alright. I existed solely to shower you with the affection you deserved, the materials you desired, the life you wanted.

But now what do I do?

My heart would break if I tried to love another girl. They will never be like you. Never. Their words would fall flat against your melodic voice, their hair like coarse burlap against your fine hair. No, no one could ever replace. Be like you.

Now I know.

My existence is done. 

I walk to my bedroom dresser and open the top drawer. Inside is that pistol I bought; I thought I would need it to protect you. You were so adamant of me not buying it, claiming it was a sign of violence in a peaceful house.

How ironic. How instead of protecting you, it will bring me to you.

The cold dark metal gleams, which looks oddly inviting. It never did before. I had always avoided the drawer it was in, probably because it held memories just like every object in this house.

I pick it up gingerly and feel the weight in my palm. It's already loaded, primed for its purpose.

I trek to the bathroom and climb into the tub.

After sitting inside, I loosen my necktie a little to get comfortable.

Fix my hair, straighten up my clothes, wipe my face.

After all, I want to look my best when I see you.

First attempt at angst. Probably failed but oh well. Improvement, at least I tried! :D  Should've probably added the main character's name. But I couldn't decide on who. >.< So, use your imagination! Your bias is speaking to you.  Something like that.

I found this song that goes well with this story. Have a listen maybe?

*Disclaimer: This story does not support suicide as an answer. It is just that, a story.*