Panting, sweating, legs tangled in bed sheets, he tosses and he turns, troubled by his dreams. It's always the same, he sees her, smiling, laughing, angry, sad. A myriad of emotions plays out on her beautiful face, blue eyes changing in intensity, reflecting her moods. He knows them all like the back of his hand, having made it his mission to memorize everything about her.

Sometimes he thinks he's done too good a job, the memories taunting him. He's haunted by echoes of her laugh, hearing her soft voice giggling no matter which direction he turns too. Even if he runs, he cannot escape her, he hears her footsteps echoing in time with his, her presence always besides him. He can't take comfort from it, his voice anguished as he screams, tearing at his hair. Strands of green fall on the floor, and he blinks, thinking he smells her perfume.

It's just the flowers in his room, a breeze blowing in through open windows, stirring their scent up. He knows he bought them because they reminded him of her, their fragrance the same as the one she wore, their petals as soft as her skin, and as yellow as her hair. He can't stand the sight of them now, the vase goes flying, shattering against the wall. The flowers lay broken on the floor, ruined, dying...just like she did.

Her death weighs heavy on his soul, crushing him, holding him down to keep him from doing anything. Keep him from living. He can't forget, he won't forget, and so he remains stuck, imprisoned by his own grief.

He's prone to screaming, her name a tortured cry on his lips, his fists pounding against the walls. Red appears, blood, his. He's making another mess, he's ruining his hands, and still he can't stop himself. He's numb to the physical pain, only the hollow, empty feeling in his soul remains. Why did she have to leave him, why did she have to choose the path that would lead to her destruction?!

He's on the floor, slumped against the wall. Is he crying? He can't tell, the blood on his hands leaves his fingers too slick, he can't feel the moisture on his cheeks. He's cried so many times in the past, he knows it won't bring her back, it's useless. He's useless. He can't do anyone any good as long as he's like this. He knows that.

Knows what he must do, and still he hesitates.

He's the only one left, the only one who knows what happened, who can remember the journey. He alone can keep her memory alive, and yet it's killing him inside.

Something has to give, and he's afraid it's him. He's been hanging on for years, she's not coming back, she can't. Her soul is burned away, his memory is all that's left. It chains him down when he wants to be free.

One more scream, and then he is on his feet. Thrusting a drawer open, searching. Searching. His fingers find a vial, how many times has he gone this route before. Always hesitating, always changing his mind at the last moment. This time he won't pause, even as a vision of her is conjured up before him. Her blues eyes looking sad, her blonde hair shining in the dim light of the room.

He narrows his eyes, screaming at her. You're not real! You're not real...And then the vial is at his lips, he's tilting it back, swallowing the bitter liquid down. It's a potent mix, it burns his throat, and he sinks back down on the bed. Flashes of her, glimpses of their time together, the memories playing backwards. From her death to their first meeting. Slowly, bit by bit, erasing away until there is nothing but emptiness in his head. Peace at last.

He'll never know what he has done, what he has cost himself. He's stolen away his memories, stolen away a chance at their future. If he had had only been a little more patient. Death for her was not an ending, but a beginning. The soul lives on. Waiting for him. Waiting for him to find her. But now that will never be.