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Description
Sitting by a marble mantle cracked in its age there is a man.  His features, sharp and angular, cast by the dwindling flames inside his hearth.  These were his final few moments, that much he knew.  There was so much he wished he bothered himself with.  So much that could have prevented what was about to occur.  If only he had tried to save Maybelline.
Things would be different if she were still here; things would still be doused in color.  He flicks his amber eyes to the silver band on his right ring finger, observing only know it's state.  Once lustrous and smooth, the ring now had tarnish and cracks.  The man liked it better like this, which allowed him to pretend that it never had a match that was still in perfect condition.
His study was ensnared in a dark cocoon, the only light blazed from the fireplace and was blocked by the man sitting in his chair.  Ever since Maybelline had been visited by Mr. Bones and Sickle the study lacked light.  Before it had been his favorite room, hers as well.  For hours they read, or watched the garden from the love seat near the east window.  That was then, and then had been so long ago.  Too long ago for him to continue his sulking, but the wound was infected.  The infection refused to go away, and the man welcomed it's spreading.
Glancing at the mahogany clock by the dusty east window the man saw the time.  Eleven-forty five.  He had fifteen minutes to attempt to prove he was worth getting into heaven.  It wasn't his fault, entirely, that Maybelline had been distraught after a minor argument.  Granted the argument was about the fact that she was carrying a child he never wanted.  Funny how the one thing that Maybelline prayed to God each day for was the one thing her own husband couldn't stand.  He could have gone after her, but upon hearing her news he saw to it that he made his was to bed after a few sips of gin.  He wasn't the driver of the coach that hit a pregnant woman and didn't even bother to stop.
This does not go over very well with Mr. Bones and Sickle though.  No, that is considered a very poor defense.  The man just stares at his aged mantle, at his aged everything.  Taking the ring he tosses it into the embers, knowing someone will find it.  Ringing begins to emanate from the clock.  Once, twice, thrice.  The man stands from his red upholstered chair.  Fourth, fifth, sixth.  He walks over to the mantle and lifts a painting of a rather lovely woman with hair like the sun and eyes as the sky.  Seventh, eighth, ninth.  He walks to the east window, still holding the painting, and opens it for the first time in years.  Tenth, eleventh, twelfth.  A figure in dark robes takes the man by the hand not holding the woman's face, and slowly lifts him up and to the sky's lights.

Description
Sitting by a marble mantle cracked in its age there is a man.  His features, sharp and angular, cast by the dwindling flames inside his hearth.  These were his final few moments, that much he knew.  There was so much he wished he bothered himself with.  So much that could have prevented what was about to occur.  If only he had tried to save Maybelline.
Things would be different if she were still here; things would still be doused in color.  He flicks his amber eyes to the silver band on his right ring finger, observing only know it's state.  Once lustrous and smooth, the ring now had tarnish and cracks.  The man liked it better like this, which allowed him to pretend that it never had a match that was still in perfect condition.
His study was ensnared in a dark cocoon, the only light blazed from the fireplace and was blocked by the man sitting in his chair.  Ever since Maybelline had been visited by Mr. Bones and Sickle the study lacked light.  Before it had been his favorite room, hers as well.  For hours they read, or watched the garden from the love seat near the east window.  That was then, and then had been so long ago.  Too long ago for him to continue his sulking, but the wound was infected.  The infection refused to go away, and the man welcomed it's spreading.
Glancing at the mahogany clock by the dusty east window the man saw the time.  Eleven-forty five.  He had fifteen minutes to attempt to prove he was worth getting into heaven.  It wasn't his fault, entirely, that Maybelline had been distraught after a minor argument.  Granted the argument was about the fact that she was carrying a child he never wanted.  Funny how the one thing that Maybelline prayed to God each day for was the one thing her own husband couldn't stand.  He could have gone after her, but upon hearing her news he saw to it that he made his was to bed after a few sips of gin.  He wasn't the driver of the coach that hit a pregnant woman and didn't even bother to stop.
This does not go over very well with Mr. Bones and Sickle though.  No, that is considered a very poor defense.  The man just stares at his aged mantle, at his aged everything.  Taking the ring he tosses it into the embers, knowing someone will find it.  Ringing begins to emanate from the clock.  Once, twice, thrice.  The man stands from his red upholstered chair.  Fourth, fifth, sixth.  He walks over to the mantle and lifts a painting of a rather lovely woman with hair like the sun and eyes as the sky.  Seventh, eighth, ninth.  He walks to the east window, still holding the painting, and opens it for the first time in years.  Tenth, eleventh, twelfth.  A figure in dark robes takes the man by the hand not holding the woman's face, and slowly lifts him up and to the sky's lights.