Gone

It happened in less than a second.
It registered much later.
And yet she did not move.

Crunched metal. Shattered glass gleamed. Blood made abstract patterns on the asphalt.
And somewhere, she knew, was his body.

Her mind was numb. The entire accident played in her mind, a never ending movie. It did not make sense.

Her legs carried her over to the scene. Burnt rubber stung her nostrils. Nausea rose within her.
Her lungs burned. She couldn't breathe.
And then, she saw him. He lay mangled. His right leg bent at a terrifying angle beneath him. And his eyes were cold. Vacant. She shuddered.

The nausea threatened again.

She rode with him. Destination now changed. It reeked of sweat and old cushions. But the smell of blood filled the interior. She gaged.

It had been an hour. The blood had soaked her clothes, and yet he bled. It trickled down, from the gash, like water from a faulty faucet.

He had support now. Oxygen. She did not want to know whether he inhaled any or not. He had oxygen.

The monitor simply stared back at her. The line danced, and his heart beat. It was the only proof of his existence.

Silence. It engulfed her. But it had been anything but silent. She could still hear the scream. It had been laden with pain. She never liked bikes.

He was always the risk taker. He used to laugh at her timidness. He laughed loudly. He loved life. Yes, he very much did.

She recoiled at her minds use of past tense.
The monitor brought her back to attention. She stared. Could it be?

Irony.

It was a straight line now. It stretched to infinity.

Nausea threatened again. Tears stung.

No, she screamed. No, No, No!

They were sorry.

The curtain fell.

And there was no applause.