He sat on the edge of her bed. Even though there were a million flowery scents in the air, the room still reeked of death. There was nothing there for anyone to find except a torn page out of her diary, brutally ripped in anger or anguish. It was written in a flourish or a frenzy of emotion, but it was old. Not truly a suicide note, not anything else.
It was just a excerpt out of her life. It was just a glimpse into the depths of her soul. It was benign text born out of some turmoil. It was a treasure of words won after a bloody battle. It was a useless piece of death. It was nothing. It was everything. It was the only thing.
He had visited her room ten times before for a clue to any foul play. He found none. Every single visit just revealed more misery, deprivation and insanity. He had put his cap and badge on the table,where they shone with authority. He felt none of that. Looking down at the torn page, he felt helpless. He felt empty.
I wish I could concentrate on things other than you, but for some inexplicable reason, all I think about, all I dream about, all I live through is you. It is not a normal thing. It is not acceptable, it is almost sickening, but I cannot shun you or your thoughts. I cannot forget you. I cannot let go of your thoughts. I cannot let go of you. You are the one constant in my life that I want so desperately to vary. You are my undoing, my destruction, my loss, my everything.
I prayed that either you would be thrown in my life, or thrown out of my head. Neither happened. I am losing faith in myself. No one knows of the future. All I know is that it should be deprived of you, because you are going to be the death of me.
He did not wonder who or what she was referring to. He only wondered one thing. He only asked one question:
Why do I always fall for the impossible?
A/n: The image does not belong to me at all. It was retrieved from this amazing blog