. . .

The light faltered as she crumpled to the ground. He had been called quite involuntarily. The hard clapping of feet against the pavement receeded quickly off into the distance. In the flash of darkness, a figure stood there with his violet eyes glowing.

He held her, the warm liquid pouring from her side. It never occurred to him to avoid it, and his hand slipped into the sticky substance, dark and crimson. He kept his eyes trained on her face and tried to keep himself composed. On the surface, his face was stiff as he revealed himself to her.

Recognition spread across her face, remembering him from a distant memory. Her features contorted, unable to bring forth the recollection. Mascara streaked her face, marking her for the remainder of her life.

"I'm dying. . ."

"Yes."

She choked on some of her fluids and lost herself in a spasm of coughing. He pulled her to his chest and did his best to calm her down. It wasn't working.

After a minute, she quieted down. She looked up at him with large eyes and asked him the most simple question. The most blatant one. She barely managed to get it out, but it rang clear and true in his ears, "Where am I going?"

He looked down at her and remembered when she was young and full of life. Not this ghost of a woman he saw before him now, her life bleeding out onto the grimy pavement. Despite his commands, tears began to slide down his cheeks. He wanted to comfort her. He really wanted to. But he couldn't bring himself to lie to her like he had lied to so many before her. He pulled her close and whispered, "I don't know."