He gazed down at his hands, wondering what he could have done...what he should have done. He wished it could have been him, he wished it upon himself in her place...he wished life onto her, wished her smile could brighten his day once more...even for just a moment. He had hoped, at first, that he may have the strength to will it away, to will the sorrow, the guilt, the agony all away but, after so long waiting, his hope and strength deteriorated and faded away as did his smile, his love, his will. It had been six months since she had died and five months since he begun to see and hear her in the house, in the car, in his head. She was everywhere; she roamed the ill-lit hallways in the night, she stood by his bed and wept by his side, she would try and hold his warm hand with her cold hand of ivory and crimson, she whispered to him while he slept and while he worked, and she sat in the back seat of his car, smiling at him with cold, pale blue lips despite the tears always falling down her bloodless, colorless cheeks. She always cried...no matter what she was doing when he saw her, tears poured from her eyes. But, it was the day those tears turned crimson and cries to screams that he lost it.
He could no longer withstand the sight of her bruised and battered ghost, of the blood that dripped from her and disappeared once it fell, of the black, hollow holes that had only recently overtook her beautiful eyes of sapphire. He no longer had the strength to live without her light or with the sight of what she had become...the sight of his sweet, mangled Annabell.
He stood in the basement where all of Annabell's belongings stayed. He clutched the knife in one hand and her necklace in the other. Annabell stood behind him, screaming as blood began to puddle beneath them. But, it was not her's. He carved her name into his arm before plunging the knife into his chest, collapsing upon the floor as his heart beat no more.