Reid wishes he were dead. Right there with her. On the floor in the blood under his shoes and it's her blood and that bitch-
He's far too afraid of death to kill himself but he's never been closer to it than this moment. His scientific mind explains probabilities to him, religion and faith quickly discarded as they should be. Science suggests, no-shouts out the probable truth-that there is nothing, that our consciousness is deleted as if it were a file in a computer. He finds himself envying the religious folk. Maybe then her death could have some purpose instead of being searing pain across his heart and in his eyes.
His hand goes to her cheek, but he pulls away. He has no desire to feel her ever cooling skin against his; it could've been two warm bodies together, two minds always learning, sharing life and teaching the other all they knew...silly puns-
He sees it flash before his eyes as he pulls his hand back. Reid has no desire to touch her now. If he does, he knows he, with his nigh perfect memory, will remember every detail of her fine hairs, her fragile blue veins with blood no longer coursing through them. He will recall with perfect clarity until the end of time what that skin felt like and what it would have been to have that next to him at night. As he read a book aloud to her. As they attended a lecture. As he fed her spaghetti. As she wiped sauce off his lip. As they listened to music, and breathed and slept and lived-
For what was.
For what is.
For what never will be.