It was as horrific as the first time.

And it would never end.

He would never stop seeing them die, seeing their blood stains.

Seeing her head on the ground, seeing his leg separated from his body.

It would repeat, over and over again.

He would always remember and he would try to keep his distance.

But it never worked.

Because he loved them more than his own life. And he would do anything to spend time with them, even as little time as it always turned out to be.

Every time, it started like a dream. Like living in a haze that he knew wasn't real but that he desperately wanted to be. A good dream.

Until it turned into a nightmare.

He met him first, always.

One time, he was a pickpocket. Another time, he was a (as hard as it was to believe), a police officers. They met in the army one time. And on a boat in another. Gazing at each other, trying to gage who would be able to take the last apple first.

They were reluctantly interested in each other at first, always. And when he began to remember those painful memories, he would try to pull away.

But just like always, he would worm his way under his skin and stick there.

And when they found her, always alone, always desperate for someone, anyone, he knew it would be too late to shake them.

Because they were always in his life.

And they would always be taken from him. No matter what life they all lived, no matter how good he pretended to be for them, something would always take them from him.

Always in the same way.

She was beheaded. He was thrown off a cliff.

She was shot in the head. He was blown up with a grenade.

She was hit by a car. He was hit by a train.

She was crushed. He was eaten.

And he was left standing in front of their remains as the rain poured down from the skies.

Their blood splattered in front of him.

His leg.

Her head.

His heart.

His tears