THE IN-BETWEEN
I drifted for days in the in-between.
Like a child on a seesaw, I wavered between the ground and sky on whims that were not my own.
Up, down.
Earth, clouds.
Life, death.
I was in and out of consciousness. The bright lights, the doctors’ sharp voices, the nurses’ kind hands, the rhythmic beeping and whirring of machines as they pumped blood and life back into me — I saw it all through a fog. Far-removed and floating outside my body, as if it were happening to someone else.
The sounds were more of a nuisance than anything. As time slipped by, I felt myself dissipating into the ether.
But then, he came.
His voice was the anchor I needed. He tied me down so I couldn’t float away. He gave me something to hold on to.
I heard the panic in his tone, the fear. Guilt poured off him in waves, a tangible thing.
I wanted to tell him it was all right — I was still here. That, for him, I’d stay.
My useless, unconscious mouth refused to cooperate.
I felt his lips on my forehead, his teardrops on my cheeks.
“Don’t leave me, Faith.” He sounded hollow. A lonely man and a lost child, wrapped up in one empty form.
Don’t cry, love. I’m still here.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my hair, his voice suffused with grief.
Don’t be sorry, love. It’s not your fault. Do you hear me?
“This is all my fault.” His words were pain embodied.
I love you, Wes. Can’t you feel it?
“I love you,” he said fiercely, his hands cupping my cheeks, which were damp with his tears. “I will always love you.”
He loves me.
“Goodbye,” he breathed.
Goodbye?
He pressed a final, gentle kiss to my lips, his hands sliding into my dirty, smoke-stinking hair. A sound escaped his throat — one of indescribable sorrow. Half sob, half scream. Like he was being torn apart from the inside out.
And then, he turned and walked away.
Out of my room, out of my life.
My tether was gone.
I began to drift once more.