She died of a broken heart

Holly opened her eyes, and for the split second of nothingness before full consciousness, everything was warm and comfortable and safe. Then for a shorter period still, there was the brief sensation of rising, as her body was indeed lifting from an unexpected night of deep, undisturbed sleep. Then she remembered, and the hollow feeling of grief followed her into the world of full alertness and did not leave.
She turned her head on the pillow to look at the man beside her, sighing as she resigned herself to the day that was to come.
"Morning sweetie," he murmured, his gentle tone with that beloved American accent of his comforted her, despite the fact that his voice was still groggy from sleep. His accent was not prominent enough to irritate, not like those harsh voices she heard on television, and it still brought small squeezes of pleasure and immature excitement, the way he spoke so differently to her. That is, until she started subconsciously copying him, that was infuriating. He always laughed at her when she did that, the little frustrated face she pulled, the tiny crease which appeared on her forehead while she fought to maintain her posh British idiolect.
"Hi," she said, in the quiet half whisper of early morning conversations.
Holly propped herself up on an elbow and leant over the side of the bed to flick on the light. The moment the warm glow from the small lamp entered the room, the pre day quiet seemed to fade, as suddenly as the darkness. All at once, she registered the distant roar of traffic through the open window. Closer at hand was the high pitched whistle of birdsong. The November wind lazily drifting through the small gap between the curtains, felt icy on the smooth, naked skin of her arms.
She turned away from the cold and snuggled into the warm bedclothes, pressing herself into the heat radiating from his body, resting her head on his chest. Silently, he slid an arm underneath her, drawing her closer and placing a hand on the back of her head, his fingers lost in her messy tousled hair. She would disagree, but Mike Forn thought she looked beautiful like that, unprepared for her day, her hair sticking out in all directions. It was so real, so personal and he was thankful. Yet there was sadness in her sleep filled eyes this morning, and it made him want to hold her all the tighter.
The two of them had met at university, after Mike had moved away from his home in the states and settled in England for his studies. His motives for leaving were still unclear to him, all he knew was that he had been going nowhere, stuck on the same circular ring road, but he had made the right decision. Somehow, after three wild and busy years of student life, they had both graduated that summer. He with a degree in mechanics, she in child care.
When he had pictured himself living in England, he had imagined the posh parts, the places people always talked about, London with its big wheel and royal family. He soon learnt however, that actually living in those places would be ridiculously expensive, especially for more than one person. He hadn't imagined needing to take that into account either.
So the two of them had ended up in a small cheap house, on the corner of an estate, five minutes walk from Holly's mother in one direction, and just round the corner from Rosewood Avenue in another, where young boys found it amusing to smash windows and do drugs. If only the calming name of the street reflected the personalities of the people who lived there; but he shouldn't complain. He had a stable job at the local garage, and though the pay was not ideal, they had two sets of income. Holly had secured herself a job caring for the local children, and combined with his sallary, they managed quite well.
"How did you sleep?" Mike asked her.
"Well actually. I wasn't expecting to."
"That's good," he said. His gaze moved to her face, "you still look tired."
"I still feel tired," she mumbled in assent.
"Do you want coffee?" He asked, after a moment of holding her in silence.
"Yes please," she was grateful.
"Back in a minute," he said, squeezing her hand under the duvet, before sitting up and climbing out of the bed.
As he slammed the windows and walked out of the room, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, thinking. If he continued to be nice to her like this, she would fall apart. It wasn't that his tendencies towards her were usually mean, but the cold emptiness of grief, seemed to have emphasised the everyday warmth of human kindness, until it was almost unbearable. It burned like a flame, and she recoiled from the heat, lest it thaw the ice inside her, melt away the numbness and bring the flooded spring river of tears; and yet she clung to his tenderness fiercely.
Her sister, Megan, had passed away in hospital, before she could stop herself, Holly had mentally counted, and with a painful leap of the heart realised it had happened exactly a week ago. How her life had changed. Holly could picture it, her imagination automatically adding minor details she would never be able to class as fact. Megan driving recklessly along a dark rain dampened road, music blaring, blocking out all other sound, her hands clutching at the wheel, teeth gritted against her anger at the world. The things Holly definitely knew to be true could be counted on her fingers. Her sister had been driving; she had been involved in a horrific, traumatic road accident. A week ago, she had died. Holly also knew that, yes, her sister had been very angry, at the whole, wide, wicked world. Her imagination always failed at that thought, simply because she knew that her experiences of anger and pain, which were the only things she had to attempt some vague understanding of how Megan had felt, were nothing in comparison.
The door made a tiny creaking sound as Mike bumped against it on his way into the room, holding two cups in his hand.
"Here you go," he said quietly, placing one mug on the wooden table and holding the other out to her.
"Thanks," she said, pushing herself up into a sitting position to take it from him.
Mike sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, his feet resting on the soft blue carpet he'd somehow managed to get cheaply, she'd never quite got to the bottom of how he'd managed to obtain the discount.
“How are you feeling about today?" He asked sympathetically.
"Shit,” she shot back bluntly. Then, "sorry," she looked at him and rubbed her hand across her face. "I'm scared,” she admitted grudgingly.
“I know you are.”
At his words, the fragile dam she’d built inside herself to hold back tears seemed to shift slightly under the pressure. The corners of her eyes began to sting; she took a sip of coffee to clear her throat, concentrating furiously. She took a deep breath before looking at him again, her hand subconsciously clenching into a small fist. “I don’t want to cry.” The sentence came out in individual words, not a fluent phrase.
“Holly, you need to let it out, at some point. You can’t keep it all inside.”
She bit her lip, he was right of course, but the idea of everyone seeing her in such a vulnerable situation. No, she couldn’t do it, especially not at the funeral. She wasn’t sure if she could force herself to let the tears out, even if she was alone, but she knew she had to, if not, they would come in time, an endless torrent, and she would have no control at all.
She drained the last of her coffee and dropped the cup onto the table. Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she stood, trying to make herself feel tall.
“Please don’t let me forget my speech notes.”
“I’ve already put them in the glove compartment, don’t worry.”
Mike suddenly stood and put an arm round her shoulders. “You are such a strong woman,” he said, there was fierce pride in his voice, “but sometimes,” he added, “you need to be extra strong, so you can let yourself be weak.”