Perfect Image

The doorknob turn easily beneath my grip. I hear labored breathing: a sharp, painful intake of air, and exhauasted exhale. You don't answer when I call your name so I follow the sounds of lungs that want to give out. My hands are sweaty, clenched in fists, and my heartbeat echoes in my racing mind: What if I'm too late? What if...what if there's nothing I can do?


The door to your bedroom is left ajar. I want to pause outside, collect myself. But I'm afraid that time doesn't allow for hesitation so I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in deep as the door gives under the gentle pressure from the push of my hand. When my eyes open, I am no longer in a world of reality. I've been taken to one of those horrible jokes: what's black and white and red all over? Black walls and sheets. Red curtains and blankets. Black hair, white skin, wet, sticky, red blood.


Blood. It's pooled on the floor, splattered in droplets across your clothes, still just barely oozing from the long lines criss-crossing your wrists. The bloodflow is slowing, stopping, so I turn my attention to your now rapid, shallow breathing. You can't force out words, but manage a shake of the head: no, you don't have an inhalter; you don't have anything that will help. So I do all I can. I prop you up in my lap, wrapping one arm around your chest to keep you from slouching to the floor.


Tears leak from my eyes, washing streaks of mascara down my cheeks and dripping salty water into your matted hair. They blur my vision as I type in the three most important numbers on my cell phone- the ones your life now depends on. I'm assured that help will be here as soon as possible, but I know all too well how far away "as soon as possible" may be.


Your eyes close and your head lolls back to rest on my shoulder. I can feel you stiffen as your muscles contract: a reaction to pain. One hand flies up to your chest, over your heart. You push down as if pressure will keep it from hurting, and your teeth clench. There's really nothing I can do to help, so I do the only thing I can think of. I move one hand over yours and squeeze tight. Your hand relaxes beneath my touch.


My lips find the bloody, wartorn battlefield that is your wrists and move to press against your forehead. They leave a perfect image. I feel sick. As your hand falls, limp, from under mine, I catch it and sheets of tears shroud my face, falling to wipe the stain of blood from my lips and your forehead, now drained of color. And help arrives. At this, my world spins and goes black. I collapse, and your weight follows mine; you fall on top of me.


When we left it was on stretchers - one covered by a white sheet, one left exposed. We were on our way to two drastically different places, yet we made the journey with one another: as fate took us our seperate ways, the angels left our hands laced together.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback