Blood. On my hands. On my head. All around me.

And I thought that I was used to it. Used to the smell and the texture. But the amount of it felt like it was more than all the six liters of blood in my body.

Black was the all I could see, but that's not just because of the wound in my head. Some kind of fabric was around it.

I couldn't breathe. And it took away all my surviving skills. My senses.

As if I’d run a marathon and my body gave the energy only to the organs that need it. The respiratory system, now. Begging my lungs to fill up, to pump any kind of gas around me in, but it was like my own body was trying to kill itself from the inside.

Like what's coming next is worse than dying.

I tried to talk, to scream on the man tying me up and forcing me to move. But my voice decided to give it's energy to my heart instead.

And walking wasn't simple. So I was so grateful when they threw me on a soft seat that I might have managed to say "thanks".

I sat there, swaying with the car’s motion. Hands and legs tied up. Eyes closed. I managed to grab the old, tattered fabric and make a hole in it.

The vanilla smell of my van filled up my lungs.

It was my favorite.

It was blurry, but I could see my wife in the picture on the van's wall. She was so beautiful.

I was hugging her there. My brown hair got swallowed by the vividness of her red, wavy, long hair. Falling to her sides, not perfectly at all. Always leaving a trail of vanilla scent following her.

Our eyes were almost the same, brown and stunningly bright. But hers were lifeless. Empty. All her happiness was held in the shape of her magical smile.

But her smile couldn't carry all the happiness and joy and love all together. The pain was eating up her laugh and raining her with tears. It stole her love and exchanged it with fear.

So she decided to kill it.

And now I'm all alone.