The Enhanced

Epilogue

My mind was not often blank; in fact I couldn't recall a time where a thought did not occupy it's confines. And yet, I sat, my brain both plagued and isolated by the very thing I wanted it to avoid. The very thing that made my heart twist and writhe in what could only be described as agony.

It was nothing like you read in books or saw in movies, I did not feel the need for revenge or retribution. I knew that it was pointless. She had killed the man that fired the gun at her. A bullet right through the left side of his heart, with a little research I knew that a few centimetres could have caused him to both gargle up his own blood and also die much quicker. Killing him faster could have been the thing that saved her life.

But the more I think about it, the more it becomes apparent that she knew she would die. The death of one soldier would only bring the pursuit of another. She was dead the minute she tried to attack any of them. The minute she tried to fight them or escape.

As I watched her head fall lazily to one side, a hole in her temple, there was no sadness. Even as I saw her chest fall for the last time and finally become still, something I had watched over and over as she slept beside me, I felt no remorse. Only doubt. Doubt and isolation.

I had known Juliet for a few months and yet it felt that I did not know who I was without her. She connected me to myself and the world around me. Without her, I was floating among nothing and no one. I relied on her, I only existed if she did. And now she did not.

It often felt as if my entire being died with her. As she drew her last breath, so did I. As the light faded from her eyes, so did mine. I had no purpose, no joy, no comfort.

In a way, it was shockingly underwhelming. All I could do was brace myself for a wave of sadness, regret, anger and pain that would never come. I didn't want to break anything, or kill anyone. I just wanted her. And I couldn't have her. And so I was stuck in a vicious prison of muted emotions and thoughts my mind could not even muster.

My body is empty; lonely. I feel nothing, my own skin is foreign to me, the very sense of warmth and cold is gone. The only feeling is the deep, incessant, rhythmic, beating of my heart felt in every inch of my skin, rattling my body like a cage, reminding me of how my heart was beating, while hers was not.

I remember her whisper in my ear. I hear her tell me she loves me for the thousandth time, and then for the last time. I feel her hand on mine, the warmth breaking through all of my doubts and worries. Her eyes searching mine for hope, she sought my happiness.

I close my own eyes and imagine her, her face, her body; the bridge of her nose, the mole on her lower jaw, the scar on her wrist. I imagine her lips moving, telling me that she loved me that she couldn't dream of living without me, that she thought it was because we were meant to be, born to be together, destined for each other. And for once, I agree with her, in much less whimsical terms, of course, I was no wordsmith like her, forming poetic sentences of song and sorrow. But, I did believe we were meant to be, because it truly felt like she was made for me.

I feel her lean in as I chuckle at our synchronization and tell her that great minds think alike.

She nods for a moment before shaking her head in a disapproving manner, causing her hair to fall in wisps around her face, "Yes," she murmurs closely, with an innocent smile, "But fools rarely differ."

And we were, indeed fools, fools for thinking that loved conquered all, fools for believing that we would surive against the world. But no matter what, there was one thing I knew, one thing I believed in its entirety. I would do it all again; exactly the same. I would love her, fight for her as I did, I would care and cry for her as I had. And when it came to the end, I knew it was better that she had died that day. I knew it was better that I be the one that survives, because really and truly, I knew she was no longer suffering. I would spend a thousand years mourning her death rather than have her take my place and sit in my absence.

Because in my loss, I realise one thing. The declaration of love, the moment one person claims they would die for another, is a statement of bravery hooded in selfishness. Because to truly suffer is to live without the one you love, to survuve your soulmate is to die over and over again every second of every day.

And I would rather suffer than Juliet. No matter what. Always.

And now I raise my glass to those birds that sing when the sun is nowhere to be seen, to those that hold their heads high through the darkness so that they might see the sun materialise on the horizon once again and feel the warmth of happiness exude them. I praise those that may stay as they were in the light, in the darkness, and I pray those brave souls see the light once more before there is nothing at all. And with what feels like no heart at all, in every ounce of my own being, I know the light will never shine on me again.