Death crept over the vehicle that was so badly mangled – smashed and cracked like its occupants. The semi that had been the demise of the car had gone on its merry way – oblivious to whom it had hit. Blood dripped from the drivers seat onto the floor, painting a sort of sad picture; a picture to tell a story for years to come. Two bodies lie in the front, clinging to each other in an embrace that could not be broken. They clung to each other in a way that signified the love that they held for one another, a love that would never be forgotten. This picture of death, this picture of love, would force even the reporters and photographers to let loose of their soul and allow themselves to cry freely, for this was death’s embrace, and though both were gone in body and in mind, they would become immortal.

The lovers had died, not alone as the driver had been so fearful of, but together, arms wound around one another, their eyes closed in the somber way of sleep. Flashing lights penetrated the intimate darkness, the silence disturbed. Yet this did not loosen the embrace; once in death, silence and screaming are one and the same. What a way to die, this way, with the one you love – if only we could all die in such ways. The flashing lights became brighter as the passenger door was wrenched open, illuminating the pale faces within. The police and ambulance crew gaped at the scene that lay before them, unable to put it into words beautiful enough to describe it. No one moved nor breathed as they took in the sight in front of them, and the silence returned once again. Even the traffic seemed to make no audible noises, as time seemed to come to a stand still.

The click of a camera broke the silence, and those who were standing around the car all snapped their heads back at the man who had taken the photo, as if coming out of a trance. Those who had come from the ambulance hesitantly walked forward to the dead couple, and, even more hesitantly, pulled them as carefully as possible out of the car almost as if they were merely one whole person, and lay them on the ground. The couple was still embraced, and as they had been laid upon the delicate grass, the man’s head had dropped forward onto the woman’s, their cold lips softly pressed against one another’s. The breath of the witnesses once again caught in their throat as they stood to take in the horrible beauty that lay on the grass before them; this time, no one took a picture.

A photo of this moment would do it no real justice, and not even the man who was there for press coverage could force himself to capture it within his camera, which he now dropped from his hands onto the ground. The camera rolled down the slight slope and stopped to rest beside the bodies of the victims – but no one who was there to witness them lying there would ever call them victims, nor the crash a tragedy. There was no possible way that they could bring themselves to call such a beautiful thing such a horrible name. Tragedy. The newspapers would be covered with the headline in mere hours, and while the people of the world shed tears, these witnesses would only shake their heads. Tragedy, They would think. How ever could someone use such a word for that? The man’s lips, which were still pressed lovingly, yet unconsciously, upon the woman’s, were curled into a slight smile. What a beautiful thing death could be, while looking like this. What horribly beautiful thing…

The man was smiling as his soul was embraced by death.