Me being me, I heard all the rumors. He killed her. He cut her into pieces. He ripped the clothes from her body. Idle gossip. But what made my ears perk up was the accusation that he didn't love her. He, like all men, had his faults. His vices, and occasionally some virtue, but he loved her. But ultimately, he loved himself more.

You ever wonder what those walls people put up are made out of? Pride and fear. He was no different. He hated surprises, challenges, dares, but most of all, he hated threats. So when she threatened to leave, he calmly walked to the door and opened it. I doubt the smell of pine moved him any more than the wind ruffling around his feet.

So she left. And suddenly nobody could blame her. He said he shut the door. Said he didn't even watch her figure walk down the gravel path to the street. Said he didn't see the gold and crimson leaves shower down on her like heavenly gems. Said he didn't pay attention when the wind caught her hair and made if flow in the breeze. Said he got his bottle of scotch and drank right from the bottle.

I don't believe he killed her. Sure, I heard the rumors. And I know what he was capable of. He hated surprises, challenges, and dares, but most of all, he loved promises. And when she left that day, she broke her promise. He wouldn't have killed her if he thought she was coming back. Trouble was, she never did.