There’s screeching now. And sirens. One SUV is flying out of the gas station. They shoot one more bullet but this one misses. Not that it matters. One less won’t make a difference. Not for me. Not anymore.
“Nat.”
It always pisses her off when I call her that and I almost smile at the memory of her face when I do.
Something gurgles up from my throat. I open my eyes for a moment to see a stranger’s face.
And then I’m watching. Just watching.
Nothing hurts. It did, the first bullet. It fucking burned. The second, too. And the one that ripped into my heart.
Now, nothing.
One leg is bent underneath me, the other stretched out. Blood pools all around me. The ambulance is here, and the sirens are fading. All noise is fading, I realize. Their screams. Their words. I hear nothing. And it’s not like I think it would be.
I want to see her again. One last time. I need to. I will myself to. To be home. To lie beside her. To touch her just once more. To brush my fingers across her cheek. To lay my hand on her belly. Hear her laugh. Feel her curl into me. Feel her breath on my cheek.
To tell her I’m sorry.
And maybe it’s my reprieve. Maybe some time in my life, I did one good thing, and this is my reward. Because I’m here with her. And she’s sleeping. She’s wearing my T-shirt. It’s so big on her. And she’s holding my pillow to her and her hair is fanned out all around her and she’s so beautiful.
I want to scream to her, but I can’t. I will the sound, but nothing comes. Nothing. I want to touch her, but I can’t feel her. I can’t fucking feel her.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m screaming, but there’s nothing. Nothing but silence. Utter silence.
She stirs. Blinks. I stop. And for a moment, I think she’s looking up at me. I think she sees me.
But then she closes her eyes again and rolls onto her side and she’s asleep. Peaceful still.
She doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know yet that I’m gone. That I won’t be able to keep my promise. That I won’t wake her tonight or any night.
She doesn’t know yet that I died.29NatalieI haven’t been inside the study in the four weeks since the night Sergio didn’t come home. I’ve barricaded myself in this house, which I never had the chance to make my home. I wanted to. After everything, I wanted to make it a home. Our home.
I know it’s too early, but I think I feel the baby moving inside me. Feel the little swell of my belly. Ever since that night, I swear I’ve felt it. Him. It’ll be a boy. I know that too.
Sergio won’t see my belly swell as his baby grows. He won’t be there when his son comes into the world. Won’t get to hold him. I wonder if he’ll look like Sergio. In a way, I hope he doesn’t because I think it will break my heart over and over again and I’m not strong enough for that.
The house is silent. All the lights are out except for the one over the stove in the kitchen. Standing at the study door, I take a deep breath in, because there’s something I have to do. Something I have to finish.
I set my hand on the doorknob and turn it, hear the creak as I push the door open.
Instantly, I am overwhelmed by memories of him. By the scent of him. His aftershave. His whiskey. Overwhelmed by the weight of the life he carried. The shadow that clung to him, that kept him in its clutches. I remember all those moments when I’d felt that strange sensation that he wouldn’t be with me for long. That he was a ghost. That this thing would claim him. I’d pushed those thoughts away then. They were too terrible to deal with. But the reality, it’s worse because it’s just that—real. And final.
The skin around my eyes is wet again, but I ignore it and walk inside, partially closing the door behind me. Make my way to the desk from memory. Switch on the lamp. His chair is pushed out like he just got up from it. I touch it, the leather cool but soft and worn and comfortable as I sink into it.
The tumbler he last drank from still sits on the desk. The half-empty bottle beside it. I wrap my hand around the heavy crystal glass and bring it to me. To my nose. I inhale. I remember. And tears slide down my face and into the glass and I bring it to my lips and drink the last swallow of whiskey and the choking sound that comes, it’s my own. It’s my grief and I can’t swallow, my throat closes up. I want to throw up. But I don’t remember the last time I ate. I have to eat for the baby. I know.