A hand rested on John's shoulder.
It glowed white with a heavenly aura, shimmering, disrupting the liquid green air swirling around it. Everything in front of him disappeared all over again, sucking itself into the horizon.
'John,' Roseanne whispered into his ear. John turned to face her. She looked just as beautiful as the day they'd met. Her white summer dress showed just the right amount of leg, and it seemed to be blown by a gentle breeze, though John felt no wind. Her hair had her signature red rose stuck into her short curls. John always told her he thought the rose was cliched, but he actually found it rather beautiful. It seemed like an age they had stood there now since the first word, in the blackness of John's mind. He looked her up and down, examining her every feature, from her soft red lips, to her perfect figure. In his mind's eye, it always looked perfect anyway. She seemed so surreal, even when she was alive. She always had this calm, relaxing air about her. John inhaled deeply, but her smell was gone. He missed the smell of roses. 'John,' She repeated his name, in her soft voice.
'I've been thinking about you lately'
'And...' She paused. John was getting impatient.
'What do you want from me this time? You never tell me... you just leave.'
'John...' She started again, staring folornly into his eyes.
'No! You aren't even real anymore Roseanne! You only look like the person I used to know, nothing more.'
A single teardrop rolled down her face.
'That hurts, John. It hurts my heart.'
'I'm sorry, Roseanne. But It's true. If I didn't tell myself that, then I'd...' He stopped, noticing red trickling through Roseanne's white summer dress. Her heart was bleeding. She collapsed to the black ground. John quickly ran to her side, panicking. 'I'm sorry,' He cried, 'I'm sorry for everything! Just please don't die again! Please!' Her eyes were losing color, rolling back in her head. More blood began dribbling from her nose, down her beautiful face.
'This is all your fault,' she whispered to him, 'Everybody you love DIES.'
John knew that this was just his own mind attacking him again, but it seemed so real. His beloved wife was dying in his arms, for the second time in his life. He couldn't delude himself against his delusion. Blood was pouring out of every pore in her face now, she was red with death, choking and withering before his eyes. She started convulsing violently, coughing blood. He could not take his eyes away from her writhing body, as she spat and screamed into his face. 'IF YOU REALLY loved me, THEN THIS WOULDN'T OF HAPPENED!!! YOU EXIST, MEANINGLESS, while I DIE.'
John couldn't take this anymore. He willed with all his might for it to stop, to just wake up, hoping against hope that his mind would be his own for once. The last thing he remembered was her beautiful face, contorted beyond recognition, eyes blacker than night, blood frothing from beyond her lips, and her hands clasped against his face. Then, nothing.
The sun had fallen beyond the horizon when John had woken. Still he sat in the familiar red truck, his head lain on the passenger's seat, drool pooling in front of his open jaw. He sat up cautiously, trying to reassure himself that this was his truck. That he really was here. Nothing flickered, no unnatural movements, just the desert wind softly howling outside the red doors. And all that remained from his vision was a intensely painful headache, that throbbed against John's skull, and sweat that had accumulated on his brow. He took a moment to consider whether he should go on or not. He was in quite a debilitating amount of pain, but on the other hand It may be best to continue on while the visions were at bay. Besides, he could always take some of the painkillers he had left. Outstretching his tired arm toward the glovebox, he pulled back the lever and rummaged inside. His hand rested on a piece of crumpled paper, to his surprise. John didn't remember any paper in the glovebox, but he didn't really remember much these days. Unfurling the paper, John saw it was adressed; "Dear John" Words littered the page, a nonsensical array of Gibberish, with only the first three lines being readable, the rest of the page covered in scribbles and drawings. Then It hit John like a freight train. He had wrote this to himself. Snippets of memory came dribbling back into his mind, images of The Stranger's death, the writing on the page. He could see and hear himself muttering like a madman, his pen blurring over the page, The Stranger's faceless corpse lying silent next to him. Suddenly John was snapped back to reality, still staring at the crumpled sheet in his hand. His illness would kill him if he didn't get the help he was looking for. Would he get there before any more innocent lives were taken? Or would he become consumed by madness? These questions and others whizzed through John's mind as he started the truck, and trundled down the road into the darkness.