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28 Ocak 2022, 23:09
Hello. I can't remember if I uploaded this last time or not before going scorched earth. Anyway, what I do remember is I was trying something a little different with this one. Whether it worked or not, I'll leave it up to you to decide. Otherwise, hope you enjoy the story.
Just a warning that this have a small scene mentioning an attempted suicide. Just in case people don't like stories that deal with such things.
*****
There's a couple of lines in the movie 'Lethal Weapon' that rings true regarding my life on this very day. Murtaugh tells Riggs, "God hates me. That's what it is." Riggs just looks back at him, breathing smoke out his nose, and replies "Hate him back; it works for me." I don't know if there is a God. I've never been particularly religious, finding those sort of classes at school rather dull. But if he does exist, as I like to think there is something out there far beyond our understanding, then the big guy can go fuck himself regarding what he planned for me.
The sky above matched my mood. My heart and mind were a swirl of emotions. Mostly grief mixed with a whole load of anger. The clouds were low and dark grey. The rain was incessant and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance, almost drowning out the voice of the celebrant. I barely listened anyway, my eyes only focused on the coffin in front of me. The only thing that mattered was that she was gone. Taken from me in an instant.
I met Jessica while spending two years travelling around Europe. We met in Berlin, not a particularly strange place for an Australian man and English girl to meet, considering it was popular on the backpacker trail. I still have no idea what drew her towards me. We met in one of the thousands of bars in the city, somewhere in the old East Berlin, once behind that famous old wall, only a small section still standing. I was on a pub crawl with a group of people I'd met in one of the city's numerous hostels. She was in town with a couple of girlfriends, escaping university for a weekend. All I know is that we hit if off immediately after I'd bought her a drink and introduced myself. The friends I'd made were quickly abandoned, while her friends disappeared off to some dance club. She let them go, wanting to stay with me.
We drank and talked until early the next morning, staying in the same bar until it closed before we walked the streets of Berlin hand in hand, eventually wandering through the Tiergarten as the sun started to rise. I think I knew her entire life story by the time we arrived at her hotel. She was definitely smart. Witty. And had a rather dark if crude sense of humour, which had me roaring with laughter at times. Add to that she was a brunette bombshell, milk chocolate brown eyes, with a bust that couldn't be ignored and curves that would drive any man insane, I was instantly smitten. Scratch that. It was love at first sight. When she invited me upstairs, I didn't say no. We fell asleep straight away, though made love as soon as we woke up.
I wondered if it was only a one-time thing, though after a very late breakfast, she asked what my plans were. I said I was in town for another couple of days before moving on. She wondered if I'd like to spend the day with her. I tried not to appear too eager when I said yes. By the end of the day, I was definitely falling in love with her. And I spent the night with her again. Our second night together, we made love all night.
She had to return home the next day. She gave me her phone number and email address. This was before the colossal rise of social media, so there was no Facebook yet. I think MySpace was around, but I didn't use it. She asked me to keep in contact, and that she'd like to see me again soon. I said I only had a couple of other places I'd like to visit, then I would be heading to the UK anyway.
We messaged and emailed constantly over the next month. She was attending university in Bristol, and asked where I would be heading once I was in the UK. I said I didn't know, the obvious choice being London as that's where all Antipodeans ended up. She wondered if I wanted to head to Bristol instead. She went even further than that, asking if I would want to move in with her.
I thought it was rather quick, but she knew I would need a place to stay. I had plenty of money that I'd saved back home before my trip, but a lot of that had disappeared, though I had a visa that would allow me to work. So I took up her offer, moved in with her, a sharehouse with three other people, and quickly found a job behind the bar in one of the many pubs that made up the city centre.
We lived frugally, both of us living the university life, but our life together was a lot of fun, though she also worked bloody hard to get her degree at the same time. She graduated at the end of that year and we married no more than six months later, at the age of only 21. That allowed me to obtain a spousal visa and we immediately started to look for full-time jobs and a place mamak escort (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) to live.
We owned our own place by the age of 25, though a lot of thanks had to go to her parents. But we had full time jobs, both reasonably well paid, and at least one new-ish car in the driveway. We often spoke about starting a family, but wanted to be smart, and at least financially secure enough so that we could afford her time off for maternity leave. But we were desperate to try, and certainly had a lot of practice. To say our sex life was mutually fulfilling would be a vast understatement.
Jessica announced she was pregnant when we were both 27, me being only a couple of months older. I was living the dream. A wonderful home. A beautiful wife. A job I actually enjoyed. We had money to spare. And now she was having my child.
My wife worked as a nurse. Long, gruelling days and nights on her feet. She loved her job too, though she was often left tired and stressed, the NHS straining at the seams, but she never complained, at least not to me, leaving all her worries about work at the door. I learned and became relatively adept at giving foot massages, knowing they often led to massaging other things. Jessica always knew, and was always happy to carry on in the bedroom, if she wasn't too tired. We would lie back afterwards, and discuss our plans for the future, a name for the baby, names for other potential babies afterwards, what colour we'd paint the walls of the nursery.
Jessica was seven months pregnant at the time a drunk driver ended the dream. He was speeding and hit my wife's driver's side door at undiminished speed, having run a red light. Paramedics arrived within minutes, but she was already dead by the time I received the knock at our front door.
I have no problem admitting I fell apart immediately.
Friends and her family rallied around, helping me organise the funeral and everything else. I barely remember much of those days. I was pretty much a zombie. I know my family back in Australia couldn't make it over. Dad was far too busy with the farm to make it, and I understood why. My sister was in the middle of marriage difficulties, and though I think she would have liked to come over, she called and we spoke for a couple of hours. Despite my own heartbreak, loss and sorrow, I couldn't stop my heart going out to her in return, her own life falling apart though in a slightly different way. My sister was two years older than me, and we'd been close growing up. We spoke as often as possible, despite living on opposite sides of the world, and I knew all about her own problems. So I told her not to worry about me.
The celebrant finally stopped speaking. I was tempted to perform the eulogy, but to be honest, I just couldn't. Call me a coward if you want. I had the words. I had far too many words. But there was no way I could stand in front of everyone and say them. Not without keeling over myself. Her brother, a good man I'd always got along with, offered to say those words for me. I could never thank him enough.
Once the funeral was complete, the coffin placed in the ground, and the wake was finally over, I was left to wallow in my own pity and despair again. I drifted through life for weeks. I eventually stopped going into work, picking up a drinking habit instead. I fell into a spiral of depression. I just stopped caring about anything. As far as I was concerned, my life ended when Jessica and my unborn child were taken from me.
My memories of that time are confusing. And then everything turned dark for a little while.
*****
*****
I pulled the BMW into the driveway of our house, waiting for the song on the radio to finish before switching off the engine. Grabbing my briefcase, I walked briskly down the path towards our front door, watching it open and my daughter appearing immediately.
"Daddy!" she yelled, running towards me with arms outstretched. I dropped my briefcase and crouched down, scooping her up in my arms and twirling her around, hearing her shriek with laughter before laying a big wet kiss on her cheek.
"Hello, Annabelle. Did you miss Daddy?"
She stretched out her arms again, and I know she wanted a hug, holding her towards me, feeling her little arms wrap around my neck as I bent down to pick up my briefcase. Carrying daughter and briefcase inside, I kicked the door shut behind me before yelling, "Honey, I'm home!"
My wife appeared in the doorway between living room and kitchen, waddling slightly considering she was six months pregnant. Still carrying my daughter, I walked towards her and leaned down to kiss her once close enough. "Good day, Steve?"
"Oh, it's always fun in the office, Jess. You know that. How are you? Annabelle giving you the run around?"
"Tired. And yes. Not really looking forward to the shift tomorrow either."
"Sounds like someone may need a foot rub later."
She smiled. "I know exactly where mamak escort bayan (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) that will lead." Then she stood on tippy-toes and whispered into my ear, "I can't wait."
We ate dinner as a family, bathed and dressed Annabelle for bed before I read her a bedtime story. She was asleep rather early. Jessica was already waiting for me on the bed, standing up as I walked into our bedroom. Hooking her arms around me, we kissed, softly at first before she responded to my deeper kiss, and soon our tongues were playing together. She pulled back and smiled, saying she loved me.
Before I could even reply, she was ripped from my grasp, thrown into the wall on the other side of the bedroom. I ran towards her immediately, getting down on one knee and moving her face towards mine. Cold, lifeless eyes stared back into my mine. I checked her body, leaping back as blood pooled on the ground. Before I could even comprehend what was happening, I heard crying from the other bedroom.
I ran down the hall, yelling my daughter's name, opening the door to be greeted by sheer silence. And an empty room. The walls were painted but bare. There was no furniture. I scratched my head, beyond confused. "Annabelle?" I asked, though there was obviously no response.
I heard a knock at the front door, walking down the stairs, opening it to find a police officer waiting for me, dressed in a bright yellow fluorescent jacket. It nearly blinded me. "Mr Smith?" I nodded. "I have some news about your wife."
"What about her? She's asleep upstairs."
He said something, but I couldn't hear it, feeling myself dragged back into the house, the door closing on the police officer. Hearing a voice behind me, I turned around to be greeted by a dark hallway, a door at the other end, a small light above it. Glancing behind, there was only darkness. Shrugging, I wandered forward, opening the door to find a table, a lone light above it, illuminating something. What appeared to be a pistol. From all the American films I've watched, it appeared to be what they called a Glock.
Walking towards the table, I looked around, seeing only darkness. Picking up the gun, it felt light in my hand, and made of plastic.
"I'm sorry."
I looked up and saw him. The driver. Without hesitating, I lifted the gun, aimed and pulled the trigger. The bullet went right through him as he continued to say he was sorry. I roared, all the anger and grief I had bubbling inside finally boiling over, feeling the tears flow as I pulled the trigger again and again, wanting the bastard to die, but he just wouldn't go down, slowly disappearing from view, only those two words continuing to repeat.
"I'm sorry."
Pictures started to illuminate around me. They were all of Jessica and myself. Those days we spent in Berlin. Her time at university in Bristol. The day we married. Our honeymoon in the Caribbean. Holidays in Europe. They were all good memories. Too much. I missed her. I wanted to be with her again. No matter the cost.
I looked down at the gun in my hand. It was the way out. The way to see her again and end all the pain. Suicide is painless, right?
I put the barrel in my mouth.
Closed my eyes.
And pulled the trigger.
*****
*****
My eyelids felt like hundred tonne weights. I could feel a blockage in one of my nostrils, blindly trying to remove whatever was obstructing it. My eyes slowly started to open, and I realised I wasn't in my house. I was in a hospital. How the hell did I get here?
Then I felt someone grab my right hand. The hand was small, soft and definitely feminine. Jessica? I managed to turn my head a little, my eyes moving the rest of the way. I opened my mouth to say something, but my voice wouldn't work, my throat as dry as a desert, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.
"Hey," my sister said quietly. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, like she'd definitely been crying. She squeezed my hand again as I noticed a presence next to her.
I opened my mouth again to say something. My father shook his head. "It's okay, Steven. It's okay. You don't have to say anything."
I looked back at my sister and I tried to smile. She smiled at me, wiping her cheeks with her free hand. "How are you feeling?" I just shrugged. I didn't remember a thing. I didn't particularly feel in any pain right now either. I just wanted the damned thing out of my nose and a drink. Preferably booze, though my stomach hurt.
"I'll grab a nurse, Rebecca. I'm sure they'll want to check over your brother."
Noticing a table nearby and a jug of water, I pointed towards it and my sister knew what I wanted. Pouring me a cup, she helped sit me up and I enjoying the feeling of cold water in my mouth and down my throat. Both still felt dry, but I certainly felt better afterwards. After lying back down, she grabbed my hand again. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Stevie. A lot has happened lately escort mamak (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) that will need explaining. I'm not sure what I can say. Just be patient. It'll be sorted out."
A nurse appeared a few minutes later. I'd obviously never met her before, though she was very friendly, talking away as she checked me over, taking my temperature, blood pressure and checking me over before asking if I felt okay.
"Fine," I managed to croak, before I pointed at the thing in my nose, "Out."
"I'll have to get the doctor first, Steven. He'll want to take his own diagnosis first. Your body has been through a lot, and although you're out of the woods and appear healthy, he'll want to make sure." The nurse then smiled at me before turning around and walking away.
I looked back at my father and sister. "What happened?" I asked, my voice gravelly though soft, as my throat still felt dry.
"Not yet, Stevie," my father replied, "It's not the time."
The doctor, a man who appeared to be of sub-continental descent, though with a Birmingham accent, appeared a couple of minutes later, clipboard in hand as he asked, "How are you feeling today, Mr Smith?"
"Fine," I said again.
"Hmmm," he said, looking down at his clipboard, "Well, your vitals are fine. Blood pressure is good. Blood work is now clean. I'm sure a couple of days' rest has helped your sobriety."
"Why am I here?" I managed to croak, my throat immediately crying out for me to stop talking.
"You don't remember?" I shook my head. "You'll need to discuss it later. But the paramedics barely made it in time."
I didn't remember a thing. Sure, there were snapshots in my mind of things that had happened since the funeral, but I'd spent most of the time since at the bottom of a bottle, trying to forget everything. I only remembered emotions. Anger. Despair. Depression. Grief. That was the overwhelming emotion. I still felt it lying there in my heart and mind. I turned to look at my family. My father appeared heartbroken. My sister was wiping her cheeks again. I looked back at the doctor. "How?" I gasped.
"Pills, a lot of alcohol and you slashed yourself too, explaining the bandage on your left wrist." I hadn't even noticed that. "We've kept you under the past couple of days simply so you would dry out."
"Shit."
"You're still alive, Mr Smith, so that's a good thing. But once you're well enough, there will be certain suggestions about what you should do next. You will receive a visitor tomorrow, perhaps the day after, who will assess your psychological condition."
"Fun."
"Stevie," my sister whispered, noticing the look she gave me.
My father turned to the doctor. "We already know why, doctor. Is it really necessary? We just want to take him home."
The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. He will need to be assessed first. We take these matters seriously, particularly if there is another attempt."
"It's fine," I grunted, my voice slowly coming back, my sister politely handing me another cup of water. I smiled at her, which made her smile back at me, though her eyes said more. Just like my father, her heart was broken.
The doctor nodded again. "Very well, Mr Smith. You feeling hungry?" I gestured I was. "Good. I'll have someone bring you a bite to eat. Nothing too much, as you probably haven't eaten a lot of food lately, prior to arriving here anyway. Other than that, you're still going to need your rest. Your body will be going through some changes. Alcohol withdrawal isn't always the most pleasant of experiences. It's another reason we kept you under for a couple of days, to get you over the worst. We did you a real favour there, Mr Smith."
"Great," I muttered, "Thanks."
The last thing the doctor did was finally take the damned tube out of my nose, confident enough that I could get up and walk to the toilet if I needed it. Food arrived ten minutes later, and though I didn't feel hungry, I scoffed it down within a couple of minutes. My stomach grumbled afterwards, left thinking it was the first proper meal I'd had in a while. I knocked back the entire jug of water at the same time, and though I wouldn't say I was feeling normal by the end, my voice finally started to work.
"When did you get here? How did you find out?" I asked.
My father and sister took a seat near my bed. My sister took hold of my hand again. I just squeezed it in reassurance. "We got here yesterday," my father replied, "We found out because you left a message online what you were doing. You have any idea what day it is?" I shrugged. Each day was as bad as the next. "It's been four months since the funeral, Steven. And barely anyone has seen or heard from you for the past three."
"We understand why," my sister added, her voice halting as she was very upset, "The message you left was... heart-breaking. As soon as I read it, I called Dad and we were on the first flight out of Melbourne the next day."
"We had no idea, son. Why didn't you speak to someone?" I just shrugged. I was too worried about wallowing in my grief and self-pity to worry about anything else. I certainly didn't want to unload my burdens on anyone else, particularly the dark thoughts which I obviously had. I still didn't really remember. I was blackout drunk the entire time.
Just a warning that this have a small scene mentioning an attempted suicide. Just in case people don't like stories that deal with such things.
*****
There's a couple of lines in the movie 'Lethal Weapon' that rings true regarding my life on this very day. Murtaugh tells Riggs, "God hates me. That's what it is." Riggs just looks back at him, breathing smoke out his nose, and replies "Hate him back; it works for me." I don't know if there is a God. I've never been particularly religious, finding those sort of classes at school rather dull. But if he does exist, as I like to think there is something out there far beyond our understanding, then the big guy can go fuck himself regarding what he planned for me.
The sky above matched my mood. My heart and mind were a swirl of emotions. Mostly grief mixed with a whole load of anger. The clouds were low and dark grey. The rain was incessant and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance, almost drowning out the voice of the celebrant. I barely listened anyway, my eyes only focused on the coffin in front of me. The only thing that mattered was that she was gone. Taken from me in an instant.
I met Jessica while spending two years travelling around Europe. We met in Berlin, not a particularly strange place for an Australian man and English girl to meet, considering it was popular on the backpacker trail. I still have no idea what drew her towards me. We met in one of the thousands of bars in the city, somewhere in the old East Berlin, once behind that famous old wall, only a small section still standing. I was on a pub crawl with a group of people I'd met in one of the city's numerous hostels. She was in town with a couple of girlfriends, escaping university for a weekend. All I know is that we hit if off immediately after I'd bought her a drink and introduced myself. The friends I'd made were quickly abandoned, while her friends disappeared off to some dance club. She let them go, wanting to stay with me.
We drank and talked until early the next morning, staying in the same bar until it closed before we walked the streets of Berlin hand in hand, eventually wandering through the Tiergarten as the sun started to rise. I think I knew her entire life story by the time we arrived at her hotel. She was definitely smart. Witty. And had a rather dark if crude sense of humour, which had me roaring with laughter at times. Add to that she was a brunette bombshell, milk chocolate brown eyes, with a bust that couldn't be ignored and curves that would drive any man insane, I was instantly smitten. Scratch that. It was love at first sight. When she invited me upstairs, I didn't say no. We fell asleep straight away, though made love as soon as we woke up.
I wondered if it was only a one-time thing, though after a very late breakfast, she asked what my plans were. I said I was in town for another couple of days before moving on. She wondered if I'd like to spend the day with her. I tried not to appear too eager when I said yes. By the end of the day, I was definitely falling in love with her. And I spent the night with her again. Our second night together, we made love all night.
She had to return home the next day. She gave me her phone number and email address. This was before the colossal rise of social media, so there was no Facebook yet. I think MySpace was around, but I didn't use it. She asked me to keep in contact, and that she'd like to see me again soon. I said I only had a couple of other places I'd like to visit, then I would be heading to the UK anyway.
We messaged and emailed constantly over the next month. She was attending university in Bristol, and asked where I would be heading once I was in the UK. I said I didn't know, the obvious choice being London as that's where all Antipodeans ended up. She wondered if I wanted to head to Bristol instead. She went even further than that, asking if I would want to move in with her.
I thought it was rather quick, but she knew I would need a place to stay. I had plenty of money that I'd saved back home before my trip, but a lot of that had disappeared, though I had a visa that would allow me to work. So I took up her offer, moved in with her, a sharehouse with three other people, and quickly found a job behind the bar in one of the many pubs that made up the city centre.
We lived frugally, both of us living the university life, but our life together was a lot of fun, though she also worked bloody hard to get her degree at the same time. She graduated at the end of that year and we married no more than six months later, at the age of only 21. That allowed me to obtain a spousal visa and we immediately started to look for full-time jobs and a place mamak escort (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) to live.
We owned our own place by the age of 25, though a lot of thanks had to go to her parents. But we had full time jobs, both reasonably well paid, and at least one new-ish car in the driveway. We often spoke about starting a family, but wanted to be smart, and at least financially secure enough so that we could afford her time off for maternity leave. But we were desperate to try, and certainly had a lot of practice. To say our sex life was mutually fulfilling would be a vast understatement.
Jessica announced she was pregnant when we were both 27, me being only a couple of months older. I was living the dream. A wonderful home. A beautiful wife. A job I actually enjoyed. We had money to spare. And now she was having my child.
My wife worked as a nurse. Long, gruelling days and nights on her feet. She loved her job too, though she was often left tired and stressed, the NHS straining at the seams, but she never complained, at least not to me, leaving all her worries about work at the door. I learned and became relatively adept at giving foot massages, knowing they often led to massaging other things. Jessica always knew, and was always happy to carry on in the bedroom, if she wasn't too tired. We would lie back afterwards, and discuss our plans for the future, a name for the baby, names for other potential babies afterwards, what colour we'd paint the walls of the nursery.
Jessica was seven months pregnant at the time a drunk driver ended the dream. He was speeding and hit my wife's driver's side door at undiminished speed, having run a red light. Paramedics arrived within minutes, but she was already dead by the time I received the knock at our front door.
I have no problem admitting I fell apart immediately.
Friends and her family rallied around, helping me organise the funeral and everything else. I barely remember much of those days. I was pretty much a zombie. I know my family back in Australia couldn't make it over. Dad was far too busy with the farm to make it, and I understood why. My sister was in the middle of marriage difficulties, and though I think she would have liked to come over, she called and we spoke for a couple of hours. Despite my own heartbreak, loss and sorrow, I couldn't stop my heart going out to her in return, her own life falling apart though in a slightly different way. My sister was two years older than me, and we'd been close growing up. We spoke as often as possible, despite living on opposite sides of the world, and I knew all about her own problems. So I told her not to worry about me.
The celebrant finally stopped speaking. I was tempted to perform the eulogy, but to be honest, I just couldn't. Call me a coward if you want. I had the words. I had far too many words. But there was no way I could stand in front of everyone and say them. Not without keeling over myself. Her brother, a good man I'd always got along with, offered to say those words for me. I could never thank him enough.
Once the funeral was complete, the coffin placed in the ground, and the wake was finally over, I was left to wallow in my own pity and despair again. I drifted through life for weeks. I eventually stopped going into work, picking up a drinking habit instead. I fell into a spiral of depression. I just stopped caring about anything. As far as I was concerned, my life ended when Jessica and my unborn child were taken from me.
My memories of that time are confusing. And then everything turned dark for a little while.
*****
*****
I pulled the BMW into the driveway of our house, waiting for the song on the radio to finish before switching off the engine. Grabbing my briefcase, I walked briskly down the path towards our front door, watching it open and my daughter appearing immediately.
"Daddy!" she yelled, running towards me with arms outstretched. I dropped my briefcase and crouched down, scooping her up in my arms and twirling her around, hearing her shriek with laughter before laying a big wet kiss on her cheek.
"Hello, Annabelle. Did you miss Daddy?"
She stretched out her arms again, and I know she wanted a hug, holding her towards me, feeling her little arms wrap around my neck as I bent down to pick up my briefcase. Carrying daughter and briefcase inside, I kicked the door shut behind me before yelling, "Honey, I'm home!"
My wife appeared in the doorway between living room and kitchen, waddling slightly considering she was six months pregnant. Still carrying my daughter, I walked towards her and leaned down to kiss her once close enough. "Good day, Steve?"
"Oh, it's always fun in the office, Jess. You know that. How are you? Annabelle giving you the run around?"
"Tired. And yes. Not really looking forward to the shift tomorrow either."
"Sounds like someone may need a foot rub later."
She smiled. "I know exactly where mamak escort bayan (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) that will lead." Then she stood on tippy-toes and whispered into my ear, "I can't wait."
We ate dinner as a family, bathed and dressed Annabelle for bed before I read her a bedtime story. She was asleep rather early. Jessica was already waiting for me on the bed, standing up as I walked into our bedroom. Hooking her arms around me, we kissed, softly at first before she responded to my deeper kiss, and soon our tongues were playing together. She pulled back and smiled, saying she loved me.
Before I could even reply, she was ripped from my grasp, thrown into the wall on the other side of the bedroom. I ran towards her immediately, getting down on one knee and moving her face towards mine. Cold, lifeless eyes stared back into my mine. I checked her body, leaping back as blood pooled on the ground. Before I could even comprehend what was happening, I heard crying from the other bedroom.
I ran down the hall, yelling my daughter's name, opening the door to be greeted by sheer silence. And an empty room. The walls were painted but bare. There was no furniture. I scratched my head, beyond confused. "Annabelle?" I asked, though there was obviously no response.
I heard a knock at the front door, walking down the stairs, opening it to find a police officer waiting for me, dressed in a bright yellow fluorescent jacket. It nearly blinded me. "Mr Smith?" I nodded. "I have some news about your wife."
"What about her? She's asleep upstairs."
He said something, but I couldn't hear it, feeling myself dragged back into the house, the door closing on the police officer. Hearing a voice behind me, I turned around to be greeted by a dark hallway, a door at the other end, a small light above it. Glancing behind, there was only darkness. Shrugging, I wandered forward, opening the door to find a table, a lone light above it, illuminating something. What appeared to be a pistol. From all the American films I've watched, it appeared to be what they called a Glock.
Walking towards the table, I looked around, seeing only darkness. Picking up the gun, it felt light in my hand, and made of plastic.
"I'm sorry."
I looked up and saw him. The driver. Without hesitating, I lifted the gun, aimed and pulled the trigger. The bullet went right through him as he continued to say he was sorry. I roared, all the anger and grief I had bubbling inside finally boiling over, feeling the tears flow as I pulled the trigger again and again, wanting the bastard to die, but he just wouldn't go down, slowly disappearing from view, only those two words continuing to repeat.
"I'm sorry."
Pictures started to illuminate around me. They were all of Jessica and myself. Those days we spent in Berlin. Her time at university in Bristol. The day we married. Our honeymoon in the Caribbean. Holidays in Europe. They were all good memories. Too much. I missed her. I wanted to be with her again. No matter the cost.
I looked down at the gun in my hand. It was the way out. The way to see her again and end all the pain. Suicide is painless, right?
I put the barrel in my mouth.
Closed my eyes.
And pulled the trigger.
*****
*****
My eyelids felt like hundred tonne weights. I could feel a blockage in one of my nostrils, blindly trying to remove whatever was obstructing it. My eyes slowly started to open, and I realised I wasn't in my house. I was in a hospital. How the hell did I get here?
Then I felt someone grab my right hand. The hand was small, soft and definitely feminine. Jessica? I managed to turn my head a little, my eyes moving the rest of the way. I opened my mouth to say something, but my voice wouldn't work, my throat as dry as a desert, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.
"Hey," my sister said quietly. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, like she'd definitely been crying. She squeezed my hand again as I noticed a presence next to her.
I opened my mouth again to say something. My father shook his head. "It's okay, Steven. It's okay. You don't have to say anything."
I looked back at my sister and I tried to smile. She smiled at me, wiping her cheeks with her free hand. "How are you feeling?" I just shrugged. I didn't remember a thing. I didn't particularly feel in any pain right now either. I just wanted the damned thing out of my nose and a drink. Preferably booze, though my stomach hurt.
"I'll grab a nurse, Rebecca. I'm sure they'll want to check over your brother."
Noticing a table nearby and a jug of water, I pointed towards it and my sister knew what I wanted. Pouring me a cup, she helped sit me up and I enjoying the feeling of cold water in my mouth and down my throat. Both still felt dry, but I certainly felt better afterwards. After lying back down, she grabbed my hand again. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Stevie. A lot has happened lately escort mamak (http://www.elitescorthatun.com/ad-category/ankara-escort/mamak-escort/) that will need explaining. I'm not sure what I can say. Just be patient. It'll be sorted out."
A nurse appeared a few minutes later. I'd obviously never met her before, though she was very friendly, talking away as she checked me over, taking my temperature, blood pressure and checking me over before asking if I felt okay.
"Fine," I managed to croak, before I pointed at the thing in my nose, "Out."
"I'll have to get the doctor first, Steven. He'll want to take his own diagnosis first. Your body has been through a lot, and although you're out of the woods and appear healthy, he'll want to make sure." The nurse then smiled at me before turning around and walking away.
I looked back at my father and sister. "What happened?" I asked, my voice gravelly though soft, as my throat still felt dry.
"Not yet, Stevie," my father replied, "It's not the time."
The doctor, a man who appeared to be of sub-continental descent, though with a Birmingham accent, appeared a couple of minutes later, clipboard in hand as he asked, "How are you feeling today, Mr Smith?"
"Fine," I said again.
"Hmmm," he said, looking down at his clipboard, "Well, your vitals are fine. Blood pressure is good. Blood work is now clean. I'm sure a couple of days' rest has helped your sobriety."
"Why am I here?" I managed to croak, my throat immediately crying out for me to stop talking.
"You don't remember?" I shook my head. "You'll need to discuss it later. But the paramedics barely made it in time."
I didn't remember a thing. Sure, there were snapshots in my mind of things that had happened since the funeral, but I'd spent most of the time since at the bottom of a bottle, trying to forget everything. I only remembered emotions. Anger. Despair. Depression. Grief. That was the overwhelming emotion. I still felt it lying there in my heart and mind. I turned to look at my family. My father appeared heartbroken. My sister was wiping her cheeks again. I looked back at the doctor. "How?" I gasped.
"Pills, a lot of alcohol and you slashed yourself too, explaining the bandage on your left wrist." I hadn't even noticed that. "We've kept you under the past couple of days simply so you would dry out."
"Shit."
"You're still alive, Mr Smith, so that's a good thing. But once you're well enough, there will be certain suggestions about what you should do next. You will receive a visitor tomorrow, perhaps the day after, who will assess your psychological condition."
"Fun."
"Stevie," my sister whispered, noticing the look she gave me.
My father turned to the doctor. "We already know why, doctor. Is it really necessary? We just want to take him home."
The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. He will need to be assessed first. We take these matters seriously, particularly if there is another attempt."
"It's fine," I grunted, my voice slowly coming back, my sister politely handing me another cup of water. I smiled at her, which made her smile back at me, though her eyes said more. Just like my father, her heart was broken.
The doctor nodded again. "Very well, Mr Smith. You feeling hungry?" I gestured I was. "Good. I'll have someone bring you a bite to eat. Nothing too much, as you probably haven't eaten a lot of food lately, prior to arriving here anyway. Other than that, you're still going to need your rest. Your body will be going through some changes. Alcohol withdrawal isn't always the most pleasant of experiences. It's another reason we kept you under for a couple of days, to get you over the worst. We did you a real favour there, Mr Smith."
"Great," I muttered, "Thanks."
The last thing the doctor did was finally take the damned tube out of my nose, confident enough that I could get up and walk to the toilet if I needed it. Food arrived ten minutes later, and though I didn't feel hungry, I scoffed it down within a couple of minutes. My stomach grumbled afterwards, left thinking it was the first proper meal I'd had in a while. I knocked back the entire jug of water at the same time, and though I wouldn't say I was feeling normal by the end, my voice finally started to work.
"When did you get here? How did you find out?" I asked.
My father and sister took a seat near my bed. My sister took hold of my hand again. I just squeezed it in reassurance. "We got here yesterday," my father replied, "We found out because you left a message online what you were doing. You have any idea what day it is?" I shrugged. Each day was as bad as the next. "It's been four months since the funeral, Steven. And barely anyone has seen or heard from you for the past three."
"We understand why," my sister added, her voice halting as she was very upset, "The message you left was... heart-breaking. As soon as I read it, I called Dad and we were on the first flight out of Melbourne the next day."
"We had no idea, son. Why didn't you speak to someone?" I just shrugged. I was too worried about wallowing in my grief and self-pity to worry about anything else. I certainly didn't want to unload my burdens on anyone else, particularly the dark thoughts which I obviously had. I still didn't really remember. I was blackout drunk the entire time.