His Bleeding Rose

YEARS

I watched as her breaths grew weaker, each one more fragile than the last, as if her life was slipping through my fingers. Her chest barely rose, her strength fading like a candle fighting against the wind. And in those moments, I wasn't just losing her—I was losing myself. Every shallow breath she took broke my heart into pieces that no time could mend.

The ambulance sped through the chaos, sirens screaming louder than my prayers. The whole city had come to a standstill—traffic signals frozen, roads blocked—just for her. It was as if the universe itself recognized what she meant to the world. To me. Even the Prime Minister cared enough to clear the way for her. But she? She didn't care about herself. She's always been like that—too selfless for a world that doesn't deserve her kindness.

And yet, I was one of the people who hurt her. One of the people who took her light for granted. But not anymore. I pleaded with Bholenath—begged, really. "Please save her. Just this once."

I'll give her the happiness she deserves. I swear it. If she doesn't want to live with my family, fine—we'll leave. We'll go wherever she wants. Even if she tells me to leave behind everything I know, to move away with her to another country, I'll do it. Anything. Everything. Just let her live.

My hands trembled as I clutched hers, cold and still. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't dare look away. "Don't leave me," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of my guilt. "I'll be better. I'll give you the love I should have given you all along. Just... stay."

The ambulance doors slammed open as we reached the hospital. They wheeled her away, her body limp, her fate uncertain. I stood frozen, my knees weak, my prayers endless. All I could do was wait and hope that somewhere, somehow, Bholenath was listening.

The smell of blood still lingered in the air, sticking to my hands no matter how many times I tried to wipe it away. Her blood. Six bullets had ripped through her, leaving her fragile body drenched in red. I tried everything—my shirt, my hands, anything I could find to stop the bleeding, but it was endless.

Now, I've been standing here for seven agonizing hours. Seven hours of pacing the cold, sterile hospital corridor, waiting for someone—anyone—to walk out and tell me she's fine. But with every passing second, the fear gnawed at me, clawing at my chest like a monster. If anything happens to her, I'll lose myself.

Finally, the doors opened, and the doctor stepped out, his face grave, his entire team behind him. "She was shot six times," he said, his voice steady but heavy.

"I know that! Is she fine?" My voice cracked, my heart in my throat.

He paused, his silence more painful than any answer. "She's not," he finally said. "The bullets hit several vital organs. She lost too much blood. The oxygen couldn't reach her brain in time. We've done everything we can, but... her body isn't responding."

The world spun. No. No, no, no. That's not possible.She's strong. She's survived worse.

The doctor spoke again, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. " she removed the bullets herself. The pain she endured without proper sedation increased her chances of death. She didn't fight it. It's almost as if... she wanted this."