Casserole. I am so sick of casserole. Any kind of casserole. Yet I have so much in my fridge. Because what better to give than casserole? Damn casserole.

It's been eleven months and a week and I still got casserole. I've had enough of the damn casserole. All I wanted was my Faith. She's all I ever loved in this world, and now she's gone. It wasn't fair, not in the slightest. I was gonna marry that girl. And I would have.

Physically, I'd recovered. Mentally? Not really. My broken arm had been mended, my concussion was gone, and my punctured lung was no longer punctured. But my heart? Still shattered like glass.

Eleven months ago, Faith and I were flying to Vegas to elope. We'd spent way too much time planning our wedding, and we decided it wasn't very much worth the effort. And it didn't take me long to realize that if we had gone through with the wedding, I'd be happily married right now.

We were on the plane, all jittery and excited. And we had good reason. We were gonna get married. Marriage. Just a plane ride away. If only we knew.

"I still can't believe we're doing this, Richard!" Faith whisper shouted with enthusiasm. "You know how much my father payed for our wedding?"

"Let's not focus on that, Faithie. All that matters is that we're getting married," I smiled, pecking her on the lips. "Not to mention, we're gonna be in Vegas; I can win us some money to go toward our daughter."

She sighed, still with a smile. "We don't know that it's a girl, Rich. The baby hasn't developed enough for a sonogram."

"I know. I know. I just want a baby girl. We can name her... Rosanna. After my mom."

"Rich, we can't decide on names right now. Let's wait for the sonogram, okay?"

I sighed. "Fine. Rosanna if it's a girl, right?" I asked. "I like Rosanna. It tastes like peaches."

She smiled. "Yeah. Rosanna. It's pretty. And if it's a boy... Rupert."

I sighed, smiling small. "Rupert? Are you planning on our child getting wedgies and having their lunch money stolen?"

She scoffed, almost a laugh. "Well what do you suggest?"

"How about," I looked up at the plane ceiling, trying to think of a good one. And I came up with one, looking back at Faith. "Joseph."

"Joseph?"

"Yeah. I like Joseph. It's... proud and strong, and smells like pine. I mean, c'mon. Joseph Hemingway. Or Joseph Winslow, if you're still determined to keep your name."

She kissed me on the cheek. "Joseph Hemingway 'hyphen' Winslow. Beautiful."

I smiled and brought her lips to mine. We stayed there like that until we heard some commotion.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened. We are experiencing technical difficulties, and are making an emergency landing." A stewardess was speaking from the front of the plane.

"What's going on?" Faith asked, a bit worried.

"Don't worry, love," I attempted to keep her calm. "I'm sure it's nothing."

And just like that, we hit turbulence. It went from calm flying to a nasty ride pretty damn quick. I grabbed Faith's hand as those plastic air bags that keep you from hyperventilating dropped from the ceiling.

"Richard," Faith whimpered, looking me in the eye. "I'm scared."

"Shh, don't be. We'll be fine, I'm sure."

And the plane started going down. I could feel it in my gut. I'll never forget that feeling. Like my heart had jumped up into my esophagus, still beating in my throat. I thought I'd vomit, but I held my own. It would end, I was so sure. I had to keep telling myself that.

"Richard!" Faith cried. "What's happening?"

I kissed her, little did I know, for the very last time. I broke free and looked into her eyes. "If this will be my last chance to say it, let me say it now; I love you, my Faith."

She smiled briefly. "Oh, Richard. I-" But she was cut off by the force of gravity.

Metal scraping, glass breaking, people screaming, chaos upon us. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do. Everything became a little fuzzy, but the last clear thing I remember was the feeling of Faith's hand in my own.

Eleven months and one week later, here I was in some crap motel room, still obsessing over her death. I was the only survivor. It wasn't fair. I hated it.

I hated this feeling of grief. It made everything smell of burnt toast. The synesthesia did that for me.

Synesthesia made my senses get confused. Like if I see the color yellow, it might taste like lemons. Or if I hear a song, it might smell like flowers. It made everything poetic. And Faith loved that about me.

Grief made me smell burnt toast, and feel sandpaper all over my body. I didn't like this. I didn't like it at all. It's been nearly a year, and I still smelled the toast. Still felt the sandpaper. It drove me mad day and night.

My mother invited me to her place in Alberta several times since Faith's death, but I refused. I wasn't going back there. It always sounded like nails on a chalkboard. I hated it there, I hated all of Alberta.

I laid there in the bed, listening to Fall Out Boy, smelling the burnt toast. This song tastes like apples. I liked apples. Much better than casserole; I hated casserole.

They always tried to comfort me with casserole. A little casserole every now and then wasn't too bad, but it was nonstop casserole. And it always felt the same; pins and needles.

That was one of the reasons I ditched town; no more casserole. If they couldn't find me, they couldn't hurt me with casserole anymore. I couldn't stand it. Pins and needles, pins and needles. Every day, pins and needles. It hurt me.

I missed Faith's voice. Her voice looked like crystals. I miss the crystals. And her smile smelled like perfume. And when we kissed, her lips sounded like... piano. Something classical. Beethoven maybe.

All I needed was Faith. All I wanted was her. Did she have to die? Did she? The funeral just smelled like... bad cheese. Bleu cheese or something. It wasn't fair. I wanted her back. No more casserole. Just Faith.

I kept thinking back to when I awoke in the hospital. All I could think about was Faith. Was she okay? Where was she? Why did I smell root beer?

A doctor walked in, a somber look upon him. "Richard Hemingway."

"Where is she, doctor?" I asked. "Faith. Where is she? Is she okay? Please, doctor, I need to see her."

He sighed. "I am very sorry, Mr. Hemingway. But... you were the only survivor of that plane crash. I'm afraid Faith Winslow is dead."

It hit me like a train. She was dead. And just like that, I smelled burnt toast.

"Dead...?" I murmured, unable to believe it.

"Is there anyone we can contact? Any friends or family that should know about your location?"

"We were gonna get married," I continued, seeing nothing but murky brown. "Me and Faith. We... we were going to elope. Vegas."

"I am very sorry Mr. Hemingway. Is there anything we can..."

But I stopped listening. I let his voice fade into the background, becoming nothing but white noise. My Faith was gone. She was just... gone. It wasn't fair. I hated myself. I hated myself for being alive. It shouldn't have been her. She was supposed to have our baby. Our baby.

This wasn't supposed to happen. We were supposed to be in Vegas, saying our I do's. I bet it would have tasted like fresh strawberries. Now I'd never know.

It took me a little while to recover from my injuries. The doctors were surprised I even survived. I almost died a few times before I awoke, according to them. Why couldn't I have simply died? Why did they have to keep bringing me back? I don't want to be here. It smells like burnt toast. Nothing but burnt toast.

I arrived at my house after being released from the hospital. And I found it at my doorstep. The worst thing on the planet.

Casserole. Tuna casserole.

There was a note attached to it: "Hey, Rich. Heard about the plane crash. I'm sorry. I heard you got out of the hospital today, so have some tuna casserole. -Wendy." Wendy was his next door neighbor.

I took it inside and put it in my fridge. I was still in a state of shock. I was nearly catatonic. I slowly walked into our bedroom and locked the door behind me, still silent. The silence tasted like oranges. I didn't like oranges.

On the bedside table sat a picture of the two of us in a small frame. I picked it up and stared at it. She was so beautiful. Her dark hair flowing in the wind sounded like waves crashing onto the shore at the beach. It was a blissful sound.

I could feel tears stinging my eyes, and I wanted someone to shoot me at that moment. My grip on the picture frame tightened as I fought my tears back. I hurled the photo at the bedroom door, letting the glass shatter and the frame fall to the floor.

It was then that I decided I shouldn't stay. I should find someplace else to go. But I never left. Not until about a week later, when my fridge was so full of casserole, I began having nightmares about drowning in it.

I woke up in the middle of the night, and decided to go for it. I got dressed, put on my light brown leather jacket, and got in my '65 Buick Wildcat, peeling out of the driveway and down the road. I took nothing with me, everything I owned reminded me of Faith.

I kept going down the road, not entirely sure where I was going. I just needed to leave. I couldn't stand it anymore, all the casserole. But it wasn't just the casserole, I suppose. I guess the pain of loss just got to me sometimes.

I continued driving until I realized I was almost out of gas. Well, it was late, I reasoned. I'd use up all my gas, and when I ran out, I'd pull over and get some rest. I was still pretty tired, which would explain this half-ass plan.

It was a few miles later, and I was out of gas. Figures. I pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car into park, taking the key out of the ignition. It was there in the silence that I could really think. I hated it.

I thought of Faith, and how beautiful she was. Her bright, green eyes that sparkled even in the dimmest light. Her thick, dark hair that practically bounced as she ran. Her soft cheeks dusted with freckles, her red lips that seemed to be chapped most of the time, her perfectly pronounced cheekbones that he always said could "cut diamonds". I loved her, and every tiny detail that made up her body and personality. But now she's gone. And I can't help but die a little.

I let out a broken sob, followed by a river of tears flowing down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands, weeping as though I were a child whose favorite toy was taken away. I let out my pain, wanting to drown myself in my own tears. A bit morbid, perhaps, but that's how I felt.

I kept crying and sobbing, letting out my pain, until my consciousness faded, and I cried myself to sleep.