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Tramone POV
His screams were all I could hear. Now, I couldn't even take something as simple as a shower. I remember the days I would hold his body as we washed together. I felt at peace with him; I wasn't Demon when I was with him. I wasn't the man that everybody feared. I didn't think I could ever love a man romantically, but he was different—unlike anything I had ever seen.
As 'How Can You Mend A Broken Heart' plays, a tear falls down my face. It wasn't long before the salty liquid kept flowing. My tears mean nothing; they could never compare to what I did to him. Bottles were scattered across the dark room. I could smell the foul scent pouring from my body, but I couldn't bring myself to care. My usually neatly trimmed beard was now messy and unkempt. My hair was all over my head, the smell disgusting and rank.
As I look down at his picture, memories fill my mind of our short time together. The way he would take care of me whenever I came too close to death, the way he would sing to me with his smooth and velvety voice. I miss the way he would rub my scalp in an effort to get me to rest; I had always had trouble sleeping before I met him.
As much as I try to blame my sister for his death, I'm as much to blame as she is. She was just like our late mother: cold, unforgiving, and calculated. That night she lay in the hospital, something in me switched. At that time, I didn't care that he was my lover; no one touched my sister and lived to tell the tale.
