Roman

XXII

"I'm taking you to see your mother, we had her prepared for her burial and I thought that you might want to see her before," he tells me, dodging my question.

I look at him, but let it slide for now, making a note to ask about it later. I take my eyes off of him and look back out my window.

My mother? She's really dead. I hadn't had much time to think about it with being so occupied with the circumstances, and now it just seems so much more real to me.

Roman's hand tightens around mind, and he rubs his thumb back and forth across the top of my hand, "I'll be there if you want me to."

I look at him and nod, smiling a little just as we pull into the parking lot.

I feel a knot form in my stomach and my mouth become dry as I think about what's about to happen.

Roman parks the car and we get out, walking towards the building. His hand slides into mine and he pulls me to a stop.

I turn and look up at him, his dark, intense eyes holding mine.

"I love you," he tells me.

I nod.

"No matter what, you and I will stick together, always. I will stand by your side when you need me to, and I know you'll do the same for me. I didn't know your mother, but I know that she was important to you and that makes it all the more important that we do this," he states. "Because I know you want it."

I step forward and wrap my arms around his waist, "I love you, Roman."

He lets out a slow breath, hugging me back tightly, "I love you, too."

I step away from him, "but I want to do this alone, please."

His jaw hardens, and I know he doesn't want to leave me alone, but I want to be by myself with her. At least for a little while.

He finally nods, looking down, "okay, go ahead. Third door on your right."

I nod, standing on my tiptoes and pressing a slow, meaningful, kiss on his lips.

"Thank you," I say before turning and walking into the building.

One, two, three.

I count the doors as I walk past them, stopping in front of the third. I stare at the door trying to pull myself together, trying to prepare myself for what lies behind it.

With a shaky hand I open it slowly, then step in.

The room is small, grey in color, bland. The floor is wooded, but it looks worn and it squeaks under my sneakers as I walk. Ahead lies an open casket, and the closer I get the more I can see.

Inside is a woman, about forty, dark hair, like mine. Her eyes are closed, her hands clasped neatly over her stomach. Peaceful looking, but also fake looking. The amount of makeup and preservatives is apparent, making her look less like what she really did. My mind plays tricks on me, making it look like her chest is rising and falling, as if she were merely sleeping.

Shaking my head, the motion stops. Imagination is a powerful thing. Your mind picks out the things it believes to be real or unnatural and fixes them, plays them before your eyes and in your mind as if it's really happening. I guess that's why fear is so powerful. It messes with your mind. Once the mind has been taken over, there's nothing you can do to stop the effects that come.

It's a dangerous thing. It can teach or create. Execute plans and think out complicated problems. Your mind is a powerful thing, which makes it dangerous.

Finally stopping directly in front of the casket, I lift my hand and place it over hers, almost immediately drawing it back. The coldness of them proves that there is no life in her body, that it's just an empty shell lying in front of me.

This is her body, yes, but she isn't here. She won't ever be here again.

It's pointless to come and kiss the person on the head or take their hand or leave gifts to be buried with them. What use are those? The person isn't here! Don't you understand?

I turn away from the casket, eyes shut tight and fists clenched. My heart races in my chest as images flash across my eyelids.

Who was Ephesus' family? Did he have one? I killed him and didn't look back. I left him lying on the ground. He's dead. I killed him. I'm a murderer.

I feel something touch my cheek softly and jump back, my eyes snapping open.

Roman watches me carefully, his hand still in the air where it had once been on my face.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"I killed him," I tell him.

His eyebrows furrow, "who?"

"Ephesus, I killed him and didn't even care. I didn't think about his family, I didn't think about the people who had lost a loved one. I just killed him and walked off. Roman, I killed him," I cry.

He walks towards me, his arms outstretched, but I step back running into the casket, wrapping my arms around myself as a tear rolls down my cheek.

"Lena," he says softly. "Look at me."

Through blurred vision, my eyes find his. Soft, gentle, intense brown.

"It's okay. It's not, but it is. I understand what you're feeling, but it had to be done. Ephesus was going to kill many people if you hadn't killed him," He says.

"But that still gives me no right to kill him," I respond.

He steps forward again, close enough that if he were to reach his hand out he could touch me, but he doesn't, "Lena, it had to be done. There's nothing anyone can do now. It's over. You saved millions of lives by taking one. It's a small sacrifice one has to pay for the expense of many. Someone had to die. It was either him, or millions of pack members."

He takes one last step forward, enveloping me in his arm, "we'll make it through this, Lena, I promise. Together."

"Together."