Even In Death

She was dead. He couldn't believe it. He knew she had been depressed but just didn't comprehend the depth it. And now, now she was gone.

She had been the love of his life and he knew she had loved him too, he just couldn't believe that she killed herself. She told him things were getting better, that he made her life worth living again. But it seems as if he wasn't enough.

Why did she have to do it? He though to himself. Why did she have to go? Didn't she realise I was here for her, I was always here for her. If only she'd asked for help. He knew he would have given it and he thought she knew it too.

They had been together for two years now. He had loved her from the moment he saw her and she didn't take very long to come around and see the light. And after that, well they'd been together ever since.

He knew she had issues, knew that, in the past she had been on medication. She had suffered from depression, not that "Oh I'm so depressed" kind of depression, but serious depression. The kind where the world seems a dark and bleak place to be. Where you didn't want to get up in the mornings and face the day. The kind where you'd cut deep into your flesh just to feel if only for a moment, even if that feeling was only more pain. That kind of real depression that doesn't just come when something goes wrong and goes away after a few hours or days. No this was the depression that drove people to kill themselves. But she was over it, wasn't she?

He had thought she was anyway, and so had she. Well as far as he knew she had.

He had loved her with every fibre of his being and she had started to feel better about things, about life and about herself. She stopped cutting, stopped hating each new day. Everybody that knew her noticed the changes taking place. And eventually, she came off the medication. Maybe that was the mistake.

For now she was dead. And he was alone.

He just couldn't understand though, why did she kill herself? The question kept echoing in his head. She had her moment where she felt the depression creeping back up on her, not as severely as it had been though. And when it did, they'd talk it out. He'd comfort her and she could tell him what was wrong and cry it out and he would hold her while she cried and tell her it was all going to be alright. Only now, nothing was right. And he didn't have somebody to talk to, someone to hold and be held by, and somebody to wipe the tears away. No, now he was alone.

He read over her suicide note for the hundredth time since he found her on the bathroom floor, her wrists still seeping blood. The strange part was that there was water in the sink, bloody water as if she had tried to wash away the blood. And then there was the bloody toilet paper in her hands, almost like she tried to stop the bleeding. But why would she do that, he thought, why would she slash her wrists only to try and stop the bleeding?

He read her note and finally saw the truth, she hadn't meant it. She really didn't want to kill herself. No longer quite so blinded by the grief of her loss and the anger of her leaving, he saw it.

The note simply said:

I'm sorry.

But then, further down was something else he'd been simply been dismissing.

Didn't mean to.

He had thought she meant that she didn't mean to hurt him, but he now realised that she meant she didn't mean to do it.

Now realising this and the error that he had made regarding her, he picked up the vile of poison he had in his coat pocket, and praying to be with her again, even in death, he drank it.

His last thoughts in this world as he slipped from the land of the living to that of the dead was that now he could be with her again and that she did still love him. And he loved her.

Even in death.