The Coldest Night

     John sat outside, his hand tightly gripping a wine glass. Alexander, his Alexander...had gotten married. John had always known deep down that he could never be with Hamilton. It wouldn't be right, they'd be put to death over it. Homosexuality was a sin... something never spoken of unless behind closed doors.
A single tear dripped down John's cheek, his breath hitching in his throat. Oh how he wished this wasn't true...how he longed for Alexander. He knew it was wrong, a guilty sinner. That's what John was...he should have never met Alexander. John continued to think over everything he'd done "wrong" as tears dripped silently down his face.
John's thoughts spiraled lower and lower as he drank. A wretched idea drifting into his head, death. What if John died? Alexander had Elizabeth now... what would he need John for?
Finally John emptied the glass. His hands were shaking ever-so-slightly, probably from intoxication. (Is that how it works??)
He sat the glass down and stood up. His boots clicked the ground as he walked down the cobblestone pathway. Later on, he found himself in a garden.
The garden was laden with beautiful flowers. John noticed a old rope and bucket sitting by the tree in the clear. Instinctively he walked towards it. Alexander had always prevented John's suicidal tendencies...but now? There was no one to stop him. John kneeled by the rope and bucket, his shaking hands gripped the rope and bucket as he pulled them over to a low branch.
He sat the bucket upside down, stepping up onto it. John flung the rope up over the branch, tieing one end around the branch and the other around his neck. A cold wind whisked through the garden, calling softly. John shivered, this was it... John suddenly kicked the bucket out from underneath him. His body jolted as he hung limply in the air...crack. John's neck had broke, just as his heart.