Writing Prompts

I saw this:

And then I thought...what if this?...

For perhaps the first time in his life, the Pirate was terrified.  He was losing her and nothing, no one, not her family, not the doctors, not even his love seemed an equal match to the demons in Elizabeth’s head. 
She had lost so much weight.  Her skin was waxen. Her eyes, dark and sunken, held no spark, no trace memory of any happiness the two of them had ever shared.  Day after day he entered her room at the sanitarium, hoping for a miracle.  And every time he left bowed with heartache.  She was slipping away a bit more every day.
In desperation, the Pirate did the only thing he could think of to do.  He stole her back.  He walked her past the prying eyes of the staff, across the grounds and behind the ridiculous carousel some well-meaning, thankful father had presented as a token of his appreciation.  When he was sure they were out of sight, the Pirate led his mute, compliant captive through a carefully concealed break in the chain-link fence and into a waiting sedan.
He couldn’t say later how he came up with the church.  He only knew she used to love it- loved the way the stained glass colored the dust motes floating in the late afternoon sunlight, loved the tender smile on the Virgin’s face as she stared into the face of her newborn son.  The Pirate only knew this had been her sanctuary once upon a time.  So he stationed two of his men in front of the chapel’s thick wooden doors and led his lady down the center aisle to settle her beside him on the wide, front pew.
She never questioned him but then, he didn’t expect her to, not really.  She hadn’t said one word to anyone since her release.  Hadn’t even acknowledged their presence. Still, when he leaned down and pulled his guitar out from beneath the bench, he’d hoped she might recall it.  But she just sat, staring down at her hands as if she didn’t recognize them either.
“Remember this?” he whispered softly.  “Before they…before you were…”  He broke off, clearing his throat with a sound that even to him was half-sob, half-cough.  He glanced over to see if she’d noticed but Elizabeth was still staring down at her fingers, slowly pleating the fabric of her wrinkled, cotton skirt.
“We used to sing this,” he said, trying again. “I wrote it for you.”
He hugged the guitar closer to his chest and felt the tissue-thin membrane between despair and hope rip apart.  It was as much for himself as for her that he began to sing.