I fell in love with a girl, and she got shot in the streets of her hometown. We grew up together, played together and laughed together even when it wasn't acceptable for a boy and a girl of our ages to be spending time together. She fell awkwardly, like her body had forgotten how to stand. Two hours ago, we ate ice cream under a ledge, hiding from the rain. I kissed her and tasted mint chip. There's a bit of blood running out of her mouth now. Two years ago, when we were still in school, she found a rabbit at the side of the road with a little bit of blood running out of its mouth. I picked it up in my coat and carried it down the road, and all the while she was talking to it, softly telling it that it would be okay, telling it not to be scared, that she would help it. Even through my coat, I could feel its heart slow down and stop. She cried for this little rabbit that she'd never known about until a few minutes ago. I cried for it too. That was the only time I'd ever cried for an animal. Now I can feel her heart slowing down through her jacket, but I'm not crying. I'm not crying because she's not dead. I'm screaming and trying to stop the blood and praying for the first time in twenty years that the only person I loved doesn't die tonight. Her blood burns my rain-numbed hands like acid. We watched Fight Club when we were young and impressionable and found ourselves some lye. There's a scar shaped like her lips on the back of my hand. Maybe I'm imagining things, but her blood seems to burn hottest there. It's our last kiss. After that, her slow heart stops, and I can cry.