His pretty blue eyes stared into yours, as the bullet soared through his heart.

“It’s all your fault, darling.” He smiled softly, with the smile he only reserved for you, his beloved wife.

The crimson spilled down his cream shirt, gushing like a waterfall. For a moment, you wanted to believe it was wine. Just to make things easier, so the truth wouldn’t come to you. But Tommy never did drink much wine, did he?

He brought his hand to his heart, before holding it out to you, the small smile still on his rosy lips.

”In the bleak midwinter-”

You opened your mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Salty tears fell down your cheeks, and he crumpled to the floor. You wanted to crumple too, you wanted to die too, but some force wouldn’t let you. Hands shook your shoulders roughly, tormenting you, torturing you. How could he be dead? His voice was echoing through the room, blank and white, but sounded like it was a universe away.

Suddenly, you saw the ceiling of your bedroom. The one you shared with Tommy.

And Tommy, alive and well, his hair a mess, staring down at you from above, his eyes filled with a deep, although drowsy, concern. His strong, calloused hands gripped your shoulders gently, his legs on either side of you.

“Shh,” He mumbled groggily, pulling your clammy, trembling body against his. “Don’t panic, it makes ‘em worse. Breathe, love.”