Just the product of some inspiration...

If Only...

"Everything's going fine, I'd be just about ready to kill her. She doesn't have a gun, probably doesn't even have clothes on. It's the easiest thing to just pull the trigger, but you know how I am. I always have to have the last word, so I'd be giving my beautifully crafted dramatic speech, but then I'm interrupted."

He pauses, his ghostly white figure holding the gun and smiling. "Then I come in, holding a gun too. 'Drop the gun', I say, and I do so, but I don't feel like letting the hooker go. She was the only witness after all. I let her go anyways. I'm busy having an emotionally challenging exchange with me, and I'm probably going through a bunch of flashbacks of long-lost love. There were probably a lot of tears, but everything happened too fast that neither one of us realized it."

I can't move. He's speaking in that same tone. The one I was always so used to… My senses are screaming at me to say something. The other one is waiting for any distraction—and he's distracted. I see him reaching for his gun. "Then, she comes in. I probably had some sort of feeling for her, and so she distracts me. Then I pull the trigger. I look back even as I fall, and I shoot me… one… two… three times, and I fall back on the bed, dead. Meanwhile, I'm busy dying over there next to the dresser, and she's telling me to hold on while the others rush in and do what they do at a crime scene. Lovely, I'm a crime scene now. Both of us are."

I still can't move. I can't get to him fast enough. There he is… lying on the dresser. I take his face in my hands…I'm saying something. He probably doesn't hear me. "And then of course. I'm saying my goodbyes. Telling her I'm sorry… The same old 'I'm dying, I'm sorry I'm dying.' You know how people are just before they die." He says.

I know I'm crying. They're calling for an ambulance, but in my heart, I know it's too late. Time seems to pass so quickly. I see his face once more before they put him in the ambulance.

Catherine jerked awake, and for a moment, his bloody face hovered over her bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin, crying and whimpering in fear of what she'd seen. Unbidden, images of that hotel room imposed themselves on her own room, and she scrambled for her bedside light, turning it on to assure herself that she was in fact, in her own bed.

She sat up, pushing off the sweat-soaked sheets and breathing in the familiar smell of her bedroom and drinking in the sight of her room with her eyes. She avoided looking at the open doorway, fearing that some apparition of him would walk through, that serious, calm look plastered on his face.

Shivering, she got out of bed and paced the floor in an effort to jog her mind out of the memories of that night. She could have done something. If only she'd gotten there a moment earlier, things would have turned out differently. If only she'd been the one to pull the trigger first and finish him off. Mike didn't deserve that. He could have been saved. If only she hadn't been so damn scared. She could have done something. She should have done something. If only the stupid hooker hadn't been walking out at that moment. If only Mike hadn't turned at that exact moment. If only she were braver. If only he was alive. If only…