After a while, the tears stop. I am unable to cry any more.
Instead I stare forwards, muting my suffering, turning off the emotions, just focusing on each breath.
In.
Out.
In.
And out.
Time passes. I'm not sure how much.
Who did this?
From what I've read in stolen news snippets, while Ad is distracted, the police haven't even begun their investigations yet into who the bomber could have been, instead focusing their energy onto the retrieval and recovery of all casualties, the assessment of the damage and destruction that remains in their wake.
But I want to know.
I want to know who did this, so I can curse their name as I sob, so I can have someone to blame. I need someone to blame.
Why did they do this?
Did they stop and think about the impact it might have? The consequences? People died. If they didn't die, they will still suffer. Trauma. Loss. Grief.
Why here?
Why these innocent people? These people were friends, parents, children, lovers. Torn from their lives and tossed aside, never to be the same again.
Why, why, why?
There is no answer to any of my questions.
I stay still, staring across the vast expanse, the wasteland, the remains of the atrocity.
So many emotions, so many feelings. So much hurt, grief, fury.
Addy is still yet to return, so I head in search of someone else to talk to. My heart burns with a desire to scream and scream and scream. I need to talk to someone.
"You done yet?" questions the police officer we spoke to earlier. "Where's the other one?"
"She'll be here soon," I say calmly. "I'm just going to speak to a paramedic."
"Don't think I'll forget about her," the woman calls after me.
"Excuse me, sir?" I ask a man leaning against one of the ambulances. He looks over to me in shock that quickly morphs into confusion.
"Yes? Are you meant to be here?"
"I'm allowed to be. I was just wondering... Did you... Did you deal with any of the casualties?"
"A few, yes," he replies, apprehensively. "There's been some nasty wounds."
"I know," I say. "My friend... She was badly injured. Really badly injured. Her mum didn't make the explosion."
"What was her name?"
"Florence Silvias."
"Oh, God... I took care of her," he says, voice dropping, becoming stricken with grief. "I didn't know she had a kid. I'm so sorry."
"What happened to her?"
"She was... In a very bad state. Broken neck, punctured lung, bleeding... So, so much bleeding," he murmurs. "There wouldn't have been anything we could do, even if we could've got her to the hospital. She was gone before we even got up there."
Unsure of what to say, I stay silent.
"Is your friend in the hospital, then?"
"Yes," I respond swiftly. "In fact, I was meant to be going there now. I just thought I'd stop here first, to... To see if there was anything I could do."
"Of course," he replies kindly. He's nicer than the others, honest in a way they are not. I respect him, even as I feed him lies. "Well, I hope she recovers soon."
"Me too," I say, the only truth I can offer. "It was nice to meet you." Before he can speak, I turn and leave, trekking back up to where I left Addy. She gets to me before I can reach her, a smile on her face.
"Sage! Where did you go?"
"I was just talking to one of the paramedics," I say. "Just trying to understand the situation."
"Yeah, that makes sense. Well, I made you something. Actually, I started it ages ago, but I couldn't work out what was wrong with it until just now. So..." Trembling, she holds out a slightly burnt canvas, turned upside down so I can't see the image. "Turn it over!"
I do, and all the breath leaves my lungs.
It's perfect.
On the canvas, she has painted a beautiful rendition of our woodland wedding, only this time it's real, and it's gorgeous. The background is formed of what seems like hundreds of shades of green, blending together to form a charming forest scene. In the foreground, the members of the audience: I spot my parents mixed amongst other guests who I don't recognise. One stands out to me - a woman with long, wavy dark brown hair that I can only assume is Adeline's mother. The resemblance is uncanny, even in painting form.
However, it is the centre of the picture that sends my heart swelling with love and joy.
For there we stand, me and Addy, both wearing beautiful wedding dresses, hands clasped together in front of us. Her dress has pretty puffed sleeves that cascade off her shoulders, a lacy white corset, long skirts that caress the soil beneath them. Mine is more of a ballgown, with huge skirts, my hair tied elegantly with a matching bow. It is the fairytale wedding, the perfect picture.
Jaw agape, I continue to drink in the image, marvelling at the emotion radiating from it. A soft serenity embraces me, happiness whisking me away on a fluffy cloud. I can almost smell the crisp forest air, mingling with the scent of the pine, feel the earth beneath my feet. The demolition disappears from around me, and I am in the painting for a beautiful moment, with her standing before me.
I kiss her lips, just once.
"It's perfect," I whisper. "You're perfect. This is... How are you so good at painting?"
"Tears and time. Do you like it? Do you like the dress?"
"I love the dress. I love the painting. I love you."
"I hoped you would. I couldn't finish it, before, but now I can. I think it's because I don't have to imagine so much anymore. I can kiss you in real life, and I can look at you, and I can picture everything. It's so much clearer than before, and so much easier to paint."
"It's so, so perfect, Addy. I love it. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she smiles.
I raise the canvas once more, allowing myself to drift into that landscape again, let it encapsulate my body with a tranquillity I haven't been able to muster in so long.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She coughs, and I return to the smoking wasteland of the explosion site just in time to see her grasp at her throat, her chest, shaking violently.
And then she collapses.