gentle squeeze of the hand, or a beautiful admittance of love. Fingers twitch. Eyes open. There’s a happily ever after.
But his fingers don’t move and his eyes don’t open.
The hydraulics pump.
The monitors beep.
Nurses and staff bustle down the hall outside the door.
“You need to wake up,” I whisper and caress his forehead with one hand. “You need to wake up to prove these people wrong. They say you’re never going to wake up.” I grip my fingers tighter around his hand. “So wake the hell up.”
No response. There never is.
“I’m tired of fighting, Nathan.” I pull away from him and take a seat in an uncomfortable chair beside the bed. “But I fight because there’s still one thing in this world worth holding onto. That’s you.”
The ugly truth is that I’d probably be six feet under if it weren’t for the imaginary story in my head; a story which ends like it does in the movies. He’s not my lover, nor has he ever been despite the town whispers. But I feel connected to him the way a parent is connected eternally to a child. I remember the first time someone told me I should become a teacher. I was in the seventh grade, and I was more focused on helping a fellow student pass their math exam than attending a mid-afternoon school dance.
Two things have changed since then; I hate math, and I don’t have that compassion—that internal want and desire to help others—in me anymore.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” I bow my head down and cradle my face with clammy hands before rising back to my feet. I can’t stay in one place. My nerves are too frayed, always afraid that someone could come through that door at any given second. “You’re supposed to be somebody to someone in this world, and I wish like hell you could be. I wish a lot of things. I wish that you were given a better hand in life, because you deserved it.”
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
After the third knock, I know my brief time is up, but I’m not ready to leave yet. “You’re going to get better because you have to. Do you hear me? You’re going to wake up because your story is far from over. You’re going to live a long, happy life, and you’re going to look back at this damn town the same way I used to. It made you stronger, but it was never home.” I brace my hands on the railing of the bed. “It can’t be, because people like you and I don’t belong here. We never did.”
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
My eyes shift to the door, and then back down at Nathan one last time. In these rushed moments, I become unraveled with the first tear marching down my cheek. My palm shakes, and my lips purse. “The strongest act of revenge is proving to the world that you’re strong when they’ve always called you weak.”
Tears begin to well in the corners of my eyes, pooling at the creases. I adjust the blanket on his cold body, and hunch over his bed. I plant a soft kiss against his forehead. “It gets better, Nathan.”
When I finally break away from him, I do so in haste. I run the back of my palm against my eyes, erasing the tears, but they’re just like chalk on a green chalkboard. I position my hat over my head and slide the sunglasses over my eyes. I pull the door open and Trent grapples my arm, twisting my body so that we face away from the way we came in.
“I told you three knocks,” he growls against my ear as he guides me down the hallway. As Trent ushers me down the corridor, I peer over my shoulder to see Nathan’s parents, wearing a haunted shade of grief on their faces. They have no right to grieve.
Their actions, and the actions of my husband, together created the perfect storm. Their choices snowballed into the ultimate tragedy where all four of us lost a child, and the two of us who were innocents caught in the crossfire are the ones who lost everything.
Why didn’t we die? It would have been easier. Right?
9
F riday mornings serve as the precursor to absolute numbness. In a mere few hours,
But his fingers don’t move and his eyes don’t open.
The hydraulics pump.
The monitors beep.
Nurses and staff bustle down the hall outside the door.
“You need to wake up,” I whisper and caress his forehead with one hand. “You need to wake up to prove these people wrong. They say you’re never going to wake up.” I grip my fingers tighter around his hand. “So wake the hell up.”
No response. There never is.
“I’m tired of fighting, Nathan.” I pull away from him and take a seat in an uncomfortable chair beside the bed. “But I fight because there’s still one thing in this world worth holding onto. That’s you.”
The ugly truth is that I’d probably be six feet under if it weren’t for the imaginary story in my head; a story which ends like it does in the movies. He’s not my lover, nor has he ever been despite the town whispers. But I feel connected to him the way a parent is connected eternally to a child. I remember the first time someone told me I should become a teacher. I was in the seventh grade, and I was more focused on helping a fellow student pass their math exam than attending a mid-afternoon school dance.
Two things have changed since then; I hate math, and I don’t have that compassion—that internal want and desire to help others—in me anymore.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” I bow my head down and cradle my face with clammy hands before rising back to my feet. I can’t stay in one place. My nerves are too frayed, always afraid that someone could come through that door at any given second. “You’re supposed to be somebody to someone in this world, and I wish like hell you could be. I wish a lot of things. I wish that you were given a better hand in life, because you deserved it.”
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
After the third knock, I know my brief time is up, but I’m not ready to leave yet. “You’re going to get better because you have to. Do you hear me? You’re going to wake up because your story is far from over. You’re going to live a long, happy life, and you’re going to look back at this damn town the same way I used to. It made you stronger, but it was never home.” I brace my hands on the railing of the bed. “It can’t be, because people like you and I don’t belong here. We never did.”
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
My eyes shift to the door, and then back down at Nathan one last time. In these rushed moments, I become unraveled with the first tear marching down my cheek. My palm shakes, and my lips purse. “The strongest act of revenge is proving to the world that you’re strong when they’ve always called you weak.”
Tears begin to well in the corners of my eyes, pooling at the creases. I adjust the blanket on his cold body, and hunch over his bed. I plant a soft kiss against his forehead. “It gets better, Nathan.”
When I finally break away from him, I do so in haste. I run the back of my palm against my eyes, erasing the tears, but they’re just like chalk on a green chalkboard. I position my hat over my head and slide the sunglasses over my eyes. I pull the door open and Trent grapples my arm, twisting my body so that we face away from the way we came in.
“I told you three knocks,” he growls against my ear as he guides me down the hallway. As Trent ushers me down the corridor, I peer over my shoulder to see Nathan’s parents, wearing a haunted shade of grief on their faces. They have no right to grieve.
Their actions, and the actions of my husband, together created the perfect storm. Their choices snowballed into the ultimate tragedy where all four of us lost a child, and the two of us who were innocents caught in the crossfire are the ones who lost everything.
Why didn’t we die? It would have been easier. Right?
9
F riday mornings serve as the precursor to absolute numbness. In a mere few hours,
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