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he staggered, the sound of the shot ringing trough the silence.
another bang, his reflexes, caw of a dying bird, dead.
20 paces.
that's what it was.
the coward had cheated.
he put his hand to his side, feeling the blood and the gaping hole, the shock preventing the pain. warm blood blossoming on his waistcoat, already seeping onto his sleeve. the bullet had gone straight through. the gaping hole testimony to his demise.
he was shot.
he would die.
he stumbled forward, trying to get a grasp on anything that would hold him, just a bit longer. he just wanted a bit longer.
the pain hit him, a stabbing, burning feeling in his side, clawing at him and crying to to known, be felt. a fizzing hot pain as he realised he was dying dying dying and no one could save him.
Francis,his cousin in both blood and friendship. guiding him down, laying him on the cold ground, proped up against the tree. running to get Isabelle.
how many times has he lain here with her? so many. not enough. looking at the clouds. dreaming of being together. once. they had sat here once, at a garden party. damn him and his bloodless addled brain.
where was she? where was the love of his life?
she should be here by now.
was she not coming?
did she truly not love him?
she never came.
he waited and waited, his breath becoming shorter and more strained with every second. but she never came.
a glow, angelic choir, and he was opening his eyes, sitting up, his pain gone.
he was alive. no, dead. who were these people?
stupid things running through his head.
what would happen to his father? is his mother cross stitching? what will they wear to the funeral? will they cry over his poetry? will he be remembered?
he hoped so.