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With a single white daisy in one hand and a knife in the other, Pierre stands on the plot in the cemetery that was always meant for him and Rachel. They were supposed to be buried together, but she left him. She promised she would never leave, but she did. Far too early. And now he is alone, waiting to hear her voice on the wind to tell him what to do.
Laying the daisy on Rachel's grave, Pierre closes his eyes, lifting his chin toward the stars. The air has the first bite of fall, chilling his fingertips and nose, but not so much so that he's any less aware of the weapon in his hand.
Without really meaning to, he lifts the blade to his throat; he knows exactly where to cut to end this finally, to end fifty years of suffering at long last. Warmth covers his fingers, but blood hasn’t yet been spilled. "I miss you," comes her voice in his ear – a voice he hasn’t heard so clearly in so many years that he almost forgot what it sounded like. "Come back to me."
With just the smallest amount of pressure, Pierre knows.
It’s time.
Laying the daisy on Rachel's grave, Pierre closes his eyes, lifting his chin toward the stars. The air has the first bite of fall, chilling his fingertips and nose, but not so much so that he's any less aware of the weapon in his hand.
Without really meaning to, he lifts the blade to his throat; he knows exactly where to cut to end this finally, to end fifty years of suffering at long last. Warmth covers his fingers, but blood hasn’t yet been spilled. "I miss you," comes her voice in his ear – a voice he hasn’t heard so clearly in so many years that he almost forgot what it sounded like. "Come back to me."
With just the smallest amount of pressure, Pierre knows.
It’s time.
