There's a bright white light flooding the room. Center stage, a gurney takes the spotlight. This scene is two hours too late. Two hours too late for the commotion. Two hours too late for the rescuers wheeling her in. Two hours too late for the girl on the gurney. Two hours too late for the flat line. Had you been there two hours ago, you would have seen this act play out.

It was merely a story before the bystander. The curtains would close, and he would go home.

To the doctor, with his hands covered in blood, this was a point in time that would replay in his head like a broken record player. Had you seen the girl on the gurney you would have grieved for her. This was not the role she chose to play. He understood that, but it never lessened the pain.

To the girl, she was the leading actress, although unwillingly. But this performance wouldn't be winning her any awards, only a death certificate.

The nurses, they were just extras, filling the space. And the room was just the setting. It was all too surreal, too movie-like. But the unnaturalness of the situation wouldn't be able to save her.

Three hours ago, her boyfriend decided to go on a little trip up high and through the clouds. While on his vacation, he decided that she was the reason that nothing ever went his way. He decided that he didn't love her. He decided he would solve that by shooting her heart out.

When he wakes up twelve hours later, he's still a little buzzed, but the gun in his hand reminds him of what he did. Too bad, he actually chose the role he wanted to play.