Her name, ripped from my lungs, pierced the darkened sky around us. She was growing cold, but I had become fire. Her gentle frame tucked into my arms, praying help came in time. Trembling, I fought the ache in my chest from a breaking heart trying to escape its cage.
Blinking away the tears, I couldn't tear my gaze from her. So soft, so gentle, so innocent. Too innocent for this life. Her slowing heart was proof of it. Dressed in white, drowning in crimson. Her light fading into the world as the dark consumed mine.
My gaze searched for helping hands, my ears straining to hear the sirens I knew should be on their way, while I quietly sang her favorite hymn to her. The quiet tune was all I could find. Running my fingers through her hair, she always liked that, as I rocked her in my arms.
Why hasn't anyone come back in yet?
Quickly, I snatched a nearby tablecloth from the table, wrapping it around her, careful not to disturb the wad of cloth over her wound that seemed to be failing by the amount of blood now pouring out of it. I didn't know someone could bleed so much. At some point, she would run out, completely. There would be no saving her then,
My life was dying, and I couldn't save it.
She was everything.
No one was coming; it would be up to me to save her. Cradling her delicate frame with one arm, I stood, glancing around, assessing the safest way out. Three closed doors, and complete silence. There should be more activity, more noise. It was too quiet for the gun battle that just took place.
I should have listened to my father.
It was too dangerous for a wedding.
Now, my bride is fighting for her life in my arms. She will die there, too, if I don't get her out of here. I had to make a choice. Left, I would take the left door. That's the one she came through. It had to lead outside. Two steps later, her screams nearly took me to the floor.
Fresh tears and staggered movement were almost our undoing. I stumbled into a nearby table, tangled in the vines of roses she wanted. It was a knife in the heart.
Thank God for her father.
He rushed in through a side door, looking just as ragged as myself. When he saw her covered in blood and flowers, death looked more alive than he did. His recovery time was faster than mine.
“Here,” pointing to the door he came through, “My car is just outside.”