She was sitting naked in bed, holding his gun. The Love Song was playing on the stereo. Their Love Song.

She smiled, holding the gun. She ran her dirty fingers along it, feeling the smoothness. It felt heavier when she held it in one hand, and there was an implication of importance from the weight, as if some giant thing like a star or a great active volcano had been collapsed down to make it. She grinned just a bit, dragging it along her body, running it between her breasts. It was warm. She had held it long enough to make it warm. Warm like him. "We were lovers, you know?" she told the gun, wondering if it would believe her. "We were wonderful, passionate lovers."

She had been there for days and nights, not sleeping, not eating, not leaving the room, not leaving the bed, not dressing. Simply crying, and holding the gun. She had many things of his in the room, dozens of little artifacts, relics to testify to his existence. A hat he had once taken off and forgotten. A necklace. A book. A portable CD player. Pictures. So many pictures. They were everywhere.

But she held none of these. She held the gun. She held his gun. It had been his most treasured thing, and now it was her most treasured thing.

The Love Song still played on the stereo. She listened to it, gripping his gun, and wished that she and he had made love. It would have been wonderful, she knew, to have made love to him.

She knew his love making would have been perfect, like everything else about him. He was patriotic, religious, handsome, caring, and a thousand other words that were inadequate to describe the marvel that was this perfect man. She had known it the first time she saw him. His appearance to her was like watching the universe created or destroyed. What she was didn't matter anymore, her entire existence was to love him. She was happy for the change. She was happy to have love. She felt everything that she had ever been and known ripping away, replaced by adoration, devotion. Unbreakable love.

Then he died.

He died.

The Love Song had been playing that night. That night when he hadn't seen them coming. That night when he couldn't reach his treasured weapon in time. That night when the world may as well have been blown into a billion fragments of molten rock by spiky haired demons playing loud music. That night when his blood, wonderful and sweet like the rest of him, spilled onto the street. That night when her tears mixed with that blood and she touched him for the first time. The night when he lay still and his heart stopped beating, and she reached into his pocket, and took his gun.

The Love Song still played on the stereo. She sat, and listened to it, and wished that she and he had met.

It would have been wonderful to actually speak to him, have him speak to her. Oh it would have been so wonderful. But it was far too great a risk for many reasons.

She loved him, and so she followed him, watching him all the time, picking up the things he left, observing his perfection. Many times, she thought of approaching him, of speaking to him, but she never did. If she were to approach him, she ran the risk of losing control, of throwing her arms around him instantly, kissing him, losing control, throwing herself down to worship him in every way. And if she could resist this, then certainly they would speak, and soon enough, he would tell her he loved her, and the shock and splendor of it would kill her on the spot. He did love her, of course. She knew he loved her, even if he hadn't known it, hadn't known her. She knew he loved her. She knew he loved her.

That love that they shared was enough for her, enough to sustain her, and keep her alive. She simply followed him, watching him working, watching him in class, watching him with his friends, watching him at the firing range shooting off his treasured gun. She followed him, loving him, knowing he loved her back, and they never had to meet. It was simple and perfect and complete.

Then he died.

The Love Song on the stereo ended. She sat in silence, caressing the gun, thinking about him.

This could not happen, she decided. How could he have been ripped away from her like this? How could such a terrible thing happen? No horror or atrocity that she had ever heard of could possibly equal this in cruelty and malice.

She loved him. He had loved her. Of course he did. If he didn't love her, it would have been an even crueler fate than his death. If he hadn't loved her, then the world would have been too terrible and callous and evil for any merciful God to create.

She turned the Love Song back on. It had been playing in her head anyway. She knew, though, that like any song, it was immeasurably more powerful to listen to it than to think about it. When their Love Song began to play, her whole body was goose flesh, and she felt weak. Her arms sagged, and the gun, for just a moment, pressed against her sex.

Suddenly, it came to her, as she stared at the thing in her hands. He loved the gun. If she loved the gun, maybe it would be like loving him.

She put the end of the gun barrel between her legs, and pressed. No hesitation, no fear, only love. She pushed, and there came pain.

Her eyes winced shut as she felt it inside her, tears seeping through at the cutting pain of it, but she never slowed or stopped. She pushed it further, and drew it back, and in and out and in and out. Oh, it hurt so beautifully. She cried tears of joy now, accepting the pain. If this was the pain of making love to him, then she welcomed it.

With her eyes closed, she imagined that this was what she was doing. She imagined him under her, inside her, penetrating her. It was paradise and heaven and beauty incarnate.

He did love her! If ever she doubted it, she knew it now. Feeling him inside her, she knew he loved her. Of course, how could she have been so stupid not to see it before? He had left the gun for her!

Her eyes opened, and everything was bleary from the tears of pain and joy, agony and ecstasy. Through the blur, she saw red below her. She was bleeding onto her white bed sheets. She smiled. She was bleeding for him. It was so perfect and painful and beautiful and sweet. She wanted to be with him forever.

She gasped with the sudden realization; he wanted the same thing. He wanted them to be together forever, whether it was in this world or the next. She wondered if he kept the gun loaded. If he did, that would seal it, that would prove it. It would prove his intentions, that he wanted her forever.

She moved herself, positioned herself just right, thinking, that will do it. Straight up, cunt to cranium.

She sat, anticipating, knowing, finally he would have his chance to prove his love for her, to show her that he wanted her forever. She prepared herself, the pain and joy filling her, feeling, knowing, that if he really loved her, the gun would be loaded.

She reached down for the trigger.

He really loved her.