She told him with a little gesture he had never seen her use before. - John Updike

3 Minutes

She told him with a little gesture he had never seen her use before. He remembered how odd it had been, her laying her finger on her eye like that. The rest of those minutes were really very blurry, she collapsed, there was some twitching and a lot of blood. Someone screamed, her or him, maybe both of them. Her blue eyes just sort of winked out, he knew she couldn't see him anymore, couldn't hear him anymore, wouldn't speak to him anymore.  He knew it. He just didn't know why. 

The floor was sticky and slick, he fell, bouncing his head on the tiles. He had to get to her, that was all he knew. He called her name. She didn't answer. He knew she wouldn't. He smelled metal, but he couldn't figure out why. He slowly raised himself up on his arms pushing his way over the floor, feeling the liquid squish beneath him, hearing it squelching with every move. Nothing felt real. He knew what was going on, but he couldn't accept it. He refused to accept it, his mind was wrong, his eyes were wrong, his fingers were wrong, his nose was wrong. Everything was wrong. Everything.

Tears slowly rolled down his cheeks, the salt in them was sticking to his skin, they were warm and cold at the same time. They hurt. 

His fingers kept slipping, the floor was so wet, and thick....Why was it so thick? It was the wrong color too, it should have been white, not black. And it was moving, in waves, little waves, like at the beach, each one slower and smaller than one before it. The smell of salt and iron was so strong, he couldn't breathe. He was gagging, stomach convulsing, throat raw and contracting, tongue swollen and dry. 

His back arched, and chest heaved, he expelled the roiling bile from his gut into the gooey, thick, floor. It mixed in, changing the color from black to a brownish red, and it stank. Rotted and metallic and salty. He gagged again, falling into the mess, his arms shaking uncontrollably, legs refusing to function, he just lay in it. Face down. He wanted to die. He couldn't die. He had to get there. Get to her. 

He raised his face from the muck, gasping harshly, blinking bile and blood from his eyes. Tears streaming, blinding and cleansing. Inching jerkily through the mask of gunk stuck to his face. There was a strange sound now. A rushing, whooshing, mewling screech. Ragged, and painful, the sound filled the air, and his lungs emptied. He couldn't breathe, but the sound did not stop. Where was it coming from? Was it from him? Yes. It was. He was making that noise, and he couldn't stop. 

The scream was broken by hiccups as his body fought for air, and he slowly pulled himself closer to her. His fingers brushed her leg, it was cold.  Not corpse cold, but too cold. Too still. She didn't even twitch when he touched her. A bad sign. He grasped her thigh, he could see his hand now, it was red. Why was it red? He looked down, right, blood, blood is red. His hand is red. Blood red. Caught red handed. He began to laugh. 

The snot flowing from his nostrils began to pool in his open mouth, he spat, quickly, gagging as he did so. Why was he laughing?

He began to inch his way up her body, to her face. So beautiful. So far away, her plaid shirt was stretched and swollen. No, not her shirt, her belly. He walked his fingers shakily over her body to her face, stopping at her mouth, it was open slightly, but there was no air coming out. The sound began again. He chocked it off. Forcing his arms to support him, his legs to move, he came up to a crawling position. 

His face was over hers now. The horrible smelling mix he had slid through dripping onto her eyes, into her hair. He kissed her. Slowly, he lowered himself down, laying his head on her ample chest. He rested his hand on her belly. 

"They're both gone." he whispered, and the sound came from deep within again. There was no stopping it now. There was no reason to stop it. Let it go, and he would go with it.