Sitting by the grave, alone, he philosophically asked: “Why do we die?”
He imagined her turning in her grave, twice, and took a drag. He felt she was still alive. How could she just leave, without saying a goodbye? She had to die, after what she had done.
The karma took the revenge, he thought. She was his partner in crime. Without her, he felt lonely, life wasn’t fun anymore.
“You never wanted me to smoke. Guess, what? This is my last cigarette,” holding the gun in the other hand, he spoke his last words.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneer hosted by Rochelle.