I've Run Out Of Titles To Give.

[Unpolished, because this piece doesn't make sense. I've given up on it.]

"Twenty Six Year Old Stabbed To Death At Glengow Park"

Even after thirty one years, looking at that headline still brought tears to his eyes. Three decades hadn't changed a thing; he still missed her. 

She still visited him, though, her ghastly silhouette serving as a reminder of her words as he held her in her last minutes on Earth. 

"No matter where I would go, or how I would go there, I promised you that I would always love you. This doesn't change a thing, babe; I love you. And I'll love you more, even from the afterlife. As long as you promise not to tell anyone what happened. Ever."

He'd held her in his arms and cried. Held her till her aroma was imprinted into his head, held her till every chasm of her body found a foothold in his mind, held her till the cops had to physically pry her lifeless body away from him.

Everyone had a thousands tongues for her at the funeral, of how she was the best, how no one compared, how they were all facing a huge loss. But those words were all empty to him. All he wanted was to see her face once again, to hold her hand, to look into those warm hazel eyes, and melt away at her cheeky smile, one last time. 

They asked him what if there was anything they could do to help, but he knew that they couldn't help with the only thing he desired: to undo those events at the park.

He wanted to shout out to the world what had happened, who had pulled her away from this world, but they had both been staunch believers in Karma; he wanted her words to be preserved with this pristine action.

The officers that showed up at their place promised him they would find the one responsible for the "heinous" and "devastating" crime, and have them behind bars within weeks, but he recognized those large empty words again, and shrugged them off. However, he realized he'd help them as much as he could, aid them in the case as far as was in his power. He wanted nothing more than her killer to pay for what he'd did. Going back on his word was out of the question, but while he wasn't willing to break the law of his promise, he had no qualms about bending it. He had promised her he wouldn't tell them who took her away from the world; he hadn't promised her that he wouldn't help them arrive at that conclusion by themselves.

But that was all in vain. Weeks turned to months turned to years, and soon the case was all but forgotten, buried under shrouds of red tape and other cases with a heavier bankroll backing. 

As he leaned back in his armchair, waiting for her to visit again, he thought off all the things he now regretted, things he'd hoped to be accountable to her for, somewhere along the line.

He regretted not asking her out throughout high school. He regretted having stayed at work on her birthday. He regretted not proposing earlier. He regretted not putting the dishes in the dishwasher when she had asked him to. He regretted not saying "I love you" more often. He regretted not getting the apartment that she so badly wanted.

But most of all, he regretted slipping that knife in between her ribs, that night at the park.