Where is Christine?

It had been ten months. Ten months since his life ended but his body somehow managed to survive. Pierre sat quietly and stared out the window in his room. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, he just sat absent minded. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and he still had on his pajamas; it was two o’clock in the afternoon. You might ask what’s wrong with him, but I assure you he hasn’t always been this way. He was once happy and joyous, energetic and spontaneous. All that remained of his former self was a few visits to the local psychiatric building and pills he didn’t know the name of. He stayed in his room most days because he couldn’t bear seeing the pictures that scatter the walls of her, he keeps telling himself to take them down but that would be like letting her go and he didn’t want to let her go. Christine was the love of his life. They met about twelve years ago and had been married for eight. The day she died was the day Pierre did too.
She had a smile you couldn’t believe. To him, she was the most beautiful human-being ever. The countless magazines she had complied all contained women that were beautiful to the world but had no effect on him. He didn’t care if her hair was in a bun, or if she didn’t have makeup on, just as long as he was able to hold her in his arms and call her his. Christine was a biologist and Pierre was a professor at Bringley University in Ohio. They lived together in their own home.
The night it all happened Pierre was making dinner for Christine before she got off work. Pierre heard the doorbell ring so he wiped off his hands on the maroon towels that Christine bought to match the kitchen. He opened the door to two police officers. He drained. Every emotion, smile, and bit of happiness was replaced with worry. First he thought, did I do something wrong? Did I run a red light on the way home? Then he thought… Where is Christine? He dropped to his knees at the mercy of these men who informed Pierre that his wife had been killed in a head on accident. They helped Pierre gather himself so he could come and identify the body. When they reached the local hospital, he was guided to the room that contained his wife. She walked in and saw her lying on the table. She was covered with a white sheet from the neck down. He knew he didn’t want to see what was under that sheet, but he looked anyway. She had bruises. She had red marks, blue marks, and purple marks all down her torso and legs. It had been bandaged but he could still see the slice through her precious belly that was supposed to hold a future child. He began to weep and covered her back up. He looked at her still beautiful face and leaned down to kiss her cold lips. He just wanted her to wake up, and get off that table. She didn’t belong there. He was pulled away from her and taken back to their home. The half cooked noodles still sat in the pot. Pierre just walked up the stairs to their room. He went in her closet, grabbed one of her shirts, sat down and buried his face in it. Her smell made the memories flood in. He left the closet and went to lay in bed. He didn’t sleep; actually he hadn’t slept since the last time he was cuddled next to her. Now he sat day after day wondering when he would ever get his life back to normal.