ση тнє мєη∂

( the picture picked out for the service helped only minutely to bleach the image of melted hair from his mind. )

how her nose tended to wriggle a little before a sneeze. she was allergic to dust, mildly so, but an allergen was still an allergen. that being said, she was stubborn to the core and refused to wear a mask when dusting. he hated dusting himself but compromise of it being his chore was eventually the only way to save her from sneezing herself into oblivion.

( the building was covered in dust, it’s not a wonder he found her tissue packet mostly empty. )

gardenias. she held a fascination for them and for the way they smelled. whenever an argument broke out between them and resulted in a fight, he’d buy either the flower itself or something that had them on it or smelled of them. she’d loved them so much that he’d come up with the idea of holding off their wedding a few extra months just so they could involve them in the wedding. the look on her face when she’d seen those white petals scattered over their honeymoon bed at the cabin had been priceless.

( death and smoke, melting, burning. they combined with her scent, so cloying it felt thick inside of his nostrils. he got sick when izzy ordered a wreath of them for the funeral. )

the way she hated his duster and loved his pullover sweatshirts, said he wasn’t some vampire from the eighties, that the pullovers fit him better. he’d disagreed, of course, but he wore the pullovers anyway if only for her sake. he knew she really loved wearing them and had since they lost their virginities to each other – he’d never seen someone so soft and angelic in all his life than when his too large shirt engulfed her smaller form. it was a habit that persisted and he pretended like he didn’t know why he got at least one pullover from her each year on a birthday or christmas. as long as she loved them.

( the sweatshirt was a soft blue, the color contrasting the setting entirely. in spite of it being two sizes too big, he could still see it molding over the faint bump of her belly. )

when they’d stay up all night chatting to each other. sometimes it was about nothing at all and just the random thoughts they’d had during the day or in that moment. others, it was one or the other of them admitting their fears of the future, how they were going to raise a family, how they wanted to eventually leave the criminal life so they could live in peace the way they’d always deserved. it was mostly him and his fears, him crumbling into pieces, and she was his champion, picking them all back up and putting them together into a beautiful mosaic.

( the voice he heard after was a ghost, an echo of the past. voice memos, voicemail messages, videos. all of them from another time and place, some place happier. )

he misses her. his best friend, his lover, his wife. he misses their baby, the little life that was lost with her and along with them both, his final shred of hope for ever having any form of happiness or a bright future. he’s gotten angry and punched holes in various surfaces until his knuckles are colored red and blue and purple, he’s prayed to gods he doesn’t believe in, he’s cried and wailed and screamed himself hoarse, anything to get the universe to give them back to him. but at the end of the day, he’s stuck with static memories of her from times and places he doubts ever truly happened.

like a true masochist, however, he delves back into them anyway, fingers dialing the number for his house phone, letting it ring and ring and ring. shuyen won’t mind, he never does. he drops the phone down on the bed beside him when the voicemail flips over, body lying limp on his bed, eyes stinging with unshed tears as their voices echoes through out his room.