The sun set behind the great mountains in a broad arc. Its rays dappled the trees, creating an even larger palette of rich, glossy greens. But as the flaming ball sunk, tenderly caressing the slopes, the sky turned a venomous blood red. The carefully etched boundaries of mountains, sky, and sun disappeared, and each smeared into another.

Solitude covered everything in a thick, silent layer. Abruptly, the wind screamed into the fading day, desperately calling it back. The desolate wind’s cries slowly dissipated into mournful whispers. Just as surprisingly, a large crow screeched back to the grieving wind, cackling. It swooped down, around and then slowly landed, simply a tiny black blemish on the endless green. Quiet settled again.

But then, the wind howled, vengeful. Its lusty ripples flew over everything, raking at rocks and pulling at the leaves. The squawking crow was not nearly as confident as before, and like a shot it sped from the overbearing mountains. The triumphant air crackled with powerful energy before slurring into a more placid mood.

And soon, in the old mansion, it became clear that walking in they were friends, but walking out, they were enemies.

Emily sent him her careless, fleeting grin as he was admitted. But the smile slipped from her face as Ciro grabbed the horrible weapon from his bag and pointed it at her. He was an amateur surely, but the large hole in which death resided was frightening nonetheless.

Ciro strode forward, his fingers twitching uncomfortably upon the metal. She whispered something, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a curse. But he ignored her, intent on the gold length of her hair which hid the prize: her temple.

Emily turned to him, fear clouding all in her pretty face. Her eyes searched his for some familiarity. He forced his face to close, for cold slivers to reach his eyes, and for the guilty grimace on his lips to dissolve.

She murmured a piercing question along with meaningless words, and though these words were shaky…though they were gushing into each other like droplets of water forming a long, winding river, the question was still golden and true and wondering and full of pain: “Why?”

His answers were all wrong, for there were no answers- after this, there would never be any answers. So, as he reached her, he simply pulled the tearstained strands of hair from her face and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, like a father comforting his daughter.

With this movement, though, words poured from Emily like a steady waterfall, stable and unafraid: “Is that an attempt to comfort me? You’re disgusting if you think I’ll forgive you before you murder me, you evil, horrid man!”

“It’s not murder, Emily. You’ve always needed salvation,” he answered in a practiced and monotonous tone.

“Salvation!” she shrieked. “I’m happy, Ciro. Happy. Why would I need salvation?”

“Shut up!” he yelled, and the entire house reverberated with his words.

She fell silent, but then she whispered one last thing, causing him to crumple. “I thought we were something- friends, maybe?”

“We are!” he cried out.

Emily gestured to the gun, which was not yet pressed against the side of her head. Realizing, that he was wasting time, Ciro grabbed her arm and pushed the weapon to her unprotected brow.

“Just shut up.”

“Are you afraid of killing me?” she mocked. “Just do it! If you have to, so badly, then just kill me. If I’m that worthless to you…Was I just a pawn is some twisted game of yours? But I see no objective and no win.”

“There is no win,” he said savagely. “Now, shut your mouth!” But the words were not as angry as before. He could not spew the fury any longer, for there was no vehement hate.

She looked up at him, defiance in now-dry jade eyes. “I won’t shut up, because you don’t mean this- none of this.” Emily stared at him tenderly. “I’ll ask you again: why?”

“You deserve it.”

“Are you trying to convince me or you?”

“Both,” he admitted, totally unable to play the charade any longer.

She seemed to relax for one moment, as if the truth had saved her from pouring into an abyss of insanity. But he jabbed her with the gun, causing her to gasp.

“Get paper,” he commanded, “and a pen.”

“Why?” she shot back.

“For your suicide note,” he answered, pretending to enjoy creating the horrified expression on her increasingly pale face.

“Will that make you feel better about this? Maybe you’ll think you’re less attached to this all by pretending it was my entire fault?”

“Paper! Pen!” he commanded.

Emily rose and walked to the oak desk in the corner of the room. He followed, along with the gun, whose barrel had been steadily growing warmer from her feverish body heat. Her fingers fumbled with the handles on the various drawers. Finally, Emily found the sheets of paper, which was stationary, really.

“What color pen would you prefer, Ciro?” Emily asked sarcastically.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” he warned. “And to answer your question, a blue or black.”

She plucked one from the desk, and he noted with some dark amusement that it was red.

“Blue or black!” Ciro commanded.

She threw the pen down and grasped another one tightly.

“Better,” he said, forcing himself to enjoy her torture.

“What shall I write?” Emily questioned slowly.

Ciro frowned, attempting to recall what Reese’s note had dictated. He simply remembered the wide, black, block-like letters. Kill her and I spare you. Remember- no strings. This is a suicide

He was shaken from his thoughts at the scribble of the pen. Her back, smooth and elongated, was stretched out over the fine wood of the desk. Emily’s shoulder blades moved jerkily as she stopped every few moments. Ciro almost jabbed her with the gun again, but he found himself curious, and so he refrained from acting.

Feeling uncomfortable because of her obvious emotional involvement in her writing, Ciro checked his watch, and read the time aloud gruffly. “Four-twenty-seven in the afternoon.”

“So?” she retorted as she stabbed the paper, created what he supposed was a period.

“Aren’t you done yet?”

She looked at him calculatingly for a moment.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to relish this moment.”

“What have you written?”

Emily handed the stationary to him, and then spoke. “A part of me doesn’t believe this is you.”

“It is!” he answered, ripping the paper from her hand.

“It’s not.”

Ciro ignored her quiet denial and read the poignant words, soon feeling a vise-like grip twist around him.

My friends, lovers, and dreams,

Do not pity my bloodless lips, pale to a terrifying extent.

Do not weep over my blood. I do not know what shade of red it shall be, but whether it is crimson or the color of glistening raspberry juice, do not weep. Too long has its rich color hidden in my body. It is time for it to lie upon the earth and feel the pounding of the ground, and widespread, immense secrets of the air. It is time, but do not taint my blood’s journey with your tears.

Do not look at me in disgust, at my naked death. This is my true body, for it is without life and soul. If you loved me in life for my beauty, do not hate me now. This is me, just as in your death, that broken shell will be your true body.

Do not wrap me in your prayers, which are simply blank sheets of silk. Do not drape me with flowers of hope. I do not need them. They are worthless when my journey is already in that direction. Do not worry about this path. It will be easy, I promise you.

Do not waltz to the most miserable music you can locate.

Do not hush anyone when they mention my name.

Do not tell stories of extreme exaggeration.

Do not whisper about what could have been.

“Poetic,” Ciro commented in an indifferent manner, “but unsigned.”

“I can’t sign it,” she answered. For a moment he marveled at the change from her terrified words from when he had pointed his gun at her. But then, he thought, he too had slipped into his true character. Neither could play charades and act for long, for he wasn’t really a murderer, and she knew this, and her bravery was shining through.

“Why ever not?”

“Because it’s a lie,” she whispered. Emily’s voice cracked, and banished his previous train of thought. She was afraid, and this was an act too…and then he thought- was there any truth this night? Had her fears been created to play with him? But was the bravery within an involuntary shield too?

“A lie,” he repeated.

“I want them to cry and miss me. I want their pity because I deserve it. They should pity me for falling into the trap of believing your lies. I should be pitied because I don’t want to die. I love life- I told you, Ciro. I’m not detached from the world. I’m not a holy woman who can do that. I can’t go to that higher level, and thanks to you, I’ll never get a chance to!”

“Then why would you write it?”

“So they remember me as the brave one who didn’t want others to suffer. See, I’m selfish. Why couldn’t I have a chance to be better? Why do I have to die like this?”

“You’d never be better if I didn’t do this. You’d never even think about it. You’d worry about making as much money as you could, you’d focus on the stocks, and you’d think only about the latest fashion in Europe. You wouldn’t be better.”

“But at least there would be the possibility.”

Ciro was shaking. “Just sign it!”

“I can’t.”

“I can’t,” Ciro repeated quietly.

“Yes, you can’t either…” The words fell from her pursed lips in a hissed stream. Emily touched his arm, and he jerked back, “Leave this house, Ciro. I’ll forget this happened. Whatever is driving you will release the pressure. Just don’t…please don’t…kill me.”

The gun touched hot skin again. It quivered, but stayed strongly along the vulnerable edges of the neck. A sharp gasp plunged into the world as her eyes, wild, stared at him.

“Ciro.” Her tone was almost condescending, but pleading too.

“I’m sorry, Emily. But notice…it is the only way. No? Why, yes. Yes, yes, it is the only way. Forgive me. Before this…forgive me. He threatened…threats! My life to yours. Can’t betray you…or him…What to do? Reese? Emily? Ciro? Who to follow? Sorry! So persuasive, so wrong. Life is good; it is good to die, Emily.”

“Ciro!”

“Just tell me you don’t hate me. Em, my friend. Emmmy, who do I follow? Don’t hate me, for it is right to die.”

Her lips parted and a defeated light entered her eyes. “No, Ciro. No hate.”

The shot of the gun was too loud to Emily’s ears. His face contorted in pain for a mere second. It turned gruesome and ugly and twisted. The slight second of pain resounded through the room. Ciro fell to the soft carpet, and the blood blossomed from his neck and spilled into the fibers on the ground. His lips pressed together once, and then relaxed. His eyelids fluttered, and then abruptly stopped. He had committed suicide, instead of the planned murder. Ciro was dead.

Emily dropped to her knees and grasped his neck, half searching for a pulse, half attempting to close the wound. Her fingers dipped in the blood, and as she jerked them back, a filthy design appeared on his neck. Emily shuddered.

The blood continued to drip, though in smaller streams. Still, Emily pressed her hands to his neck. The blood flow slowed completely, and Emily stood, feeling nauseous.

She went to the bathroom.

Emily stared at the offending body parts: her hands, creased with lines. Now, these hands would never be clean. No matter how white, they were forever tainted with his blood. Even the white seemed like some horrendous mockery. White was the color of a wedding dress, untouched snow, and clean canvases- in short, purity. White was not the color of guilt, and she was guilty. She hadn’t saved him. His death was reversible- most events were, are, and will be. As she recalled the soiling event distastefully, she spit in an attempt to force the poisonous sadness from her body. Slowly, Emily began to convince herself of her innocence- nothing could ever have been done. She lied, telling herself that fate was fate; that death was death; that survival simply equaled survival.

She then washed her hands.