This month’s song is “Angel” by Theory of a Deadman. Have a listen, if you like:
I liked this song – a lot – and here’s my wee bit of flash fiction inspired by it.
He stared down at her, hidden in the shadows as she slept peacefully. How she managed that after the all-out screaming match they’d had the night before, he had no idea. He, himself, had been unable to sleep, body literally shaking after the painful, and very public, fight.
He’d tried but had ended up replaying everything in his mind—every word; the way their friends had looked him, casting him as the bad guy, the one at fault; the way she had looked at him… Even now, his chest ached at the memory of her wide eyes filling with tears and the hurt evident in every line on her face.
As the night had passed, the dread had swelled until he felt he was choking on it. The fact he was doing the right thing—especially for her, because every fucking thing he did was for her—didn’t ease a damned thing inside him. He hoped eventually it would. That someday in the near future he wouldn’t feel sick about what he was about to do.
He stepped over to the side of the bed and, bending at the waist, brushed her long hair from her face.
“Love you,” he whispered before ghosting his lips over her forehead.
She shifted as he straightened and he froze, hoping she stayed asleep. Her waking up wouldn’t stop him—this was the best thing for them, for her—but it would make everything so much more difficult. And while he was under no illusions about how fucking awful things were going to be from here on out, he couldn’t blame himself for making this one thing a little easier.
He shook his head in disgust. Of course he could blame himself. And did. But no witnesses, especially her, was the only small measure of mercy he could manage for himself—deserved or not.
Reassured she was still out and unlikely to wake, he steeled his resolve. He had to do this. It had to be now. There was no turning back now the plan was in motion. He turned and strode to the door, only pausing to lift the large duffle he’d packed quietly in secret the day before. Fingers already aching from how tightly he held the handles, he didn’t allow himself to look back, to doubt or waver. And walked out the door and into an uncertain future. Without her.