(And what a sad skeleton at that.)

He looks down at the stains on her dress. At the disfigured fabric, once pure, now so tainted with all the putrid colors of the sickly rainbow. After years of wear, she finally grew into it, only to soak it in filth, sweat, saliva, and blood. (So much blood.) It pains him to feel disgusted, guilty for this conflicted revulsion toward her. He loves her dearly. More than he ever thought possible.

Even if her insides are pouring out of her.

“My sweet . . .” he hums in her ear.

Her shriveled lips smack and her lungs wheeze out a dusty breath. Her lids are open but her pupils are rolled into the back of her head, showing the whites of her eyes.

As he holds her half-dead body, a tear manages to escape from his dry soul. He hasn’t cried in decades. The memory of her finally causes him to overflow. Of the sweet little girl who jumped from excitement at the sound of his footsteps. The one he bathed and changed and showed photographs to and fell asleep with while she provided him with more than she could ever know. The one he vowed to keep safe. To protect. But it is far too late for that now and she is far too sick.

Death won. It knew he would pull the trigger.

(What are you doing?)

He bends down and presses his head against hers, biting his lower lip as water streams down his cheeks, soaking her face. Her beautiful, beautiful face. His teeth break skin and drops of his blood fall onto her pale lips; buds of life on rotten soil. He smells the thick iron scent and brings his mouth to hers, giving her a cold, lifeless kiss. She tastes like decay. He holds still there against her, waiting to hear her swallow all of him that has trickled into her throat. Every last drop. His blood that would save her, if not from the former way, then from this. This damned way.

(Stop this.)

As he does, he rests the palm of his hand on her chest, feeling her faint heartbeat.

It is the last time he’ll ever hear it.

It is going to give out either way. Then we’ll both be dead.

(This isn’t right.)

Slowly, as if this is the way the world ends, he drags his mouth to her neck. He takes a quick glance at her arm and observes what he has done to her. The recent puncture wounds of a failed revival that are no longer healing at the rate they should be. That are resurfacing from failure. The detailed treatment, now a sadistic stick-and-poke.

He dips his hand between her legs and pulls out a bloody palm, shining with brilliant red life—the only life left in her trying to make its escape—melting into his shirt sleeve with sludge-like tempo.

His chest ignites.

(Don’t.)

He bites, his teeth piercing her neck. Her skin leaks and the moldy taste of her slides down his tongue in exchange for venom. He remains, refusing to recoil away. She sputters out a cough. Her chest jerks upward as if trying to shake him off. He maintains his hold on her as he cries and she sinks back into the mattress with defeat.