Four AM
Chapter One
The house was dark and cool, and my bed enveloped me like a loving caress as I lay there, half awake, waiting on you to come home.
I never would have let you go if I knew it would be the last time I’d see you alive.
You said you’d be back soon. Around midnight, probably. No later then two or three.
Don’t worry.
I did.
Swishing like sea weeds swaying underwater, my nightgown pooled around my ankles as I crawled out of bed for a drink. I put on that gown for you, because it was your favorite. And -like I was those sea weeds- everything seemed like it was underwater. Sound traveled as slowly as my legs seemed to, tramping down the carpeted stairs. I was beginning to get angry, to cover up being anxious. Anger was easier then nervousness, especially when it was directed towards you. I wished half-heartedly that the stairway was wooden, because at least then I could stomp; throw my weight around a little.
Don’t worry.
I am.
I flicked on the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, flinching as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights.
The oven light read 3:44
I scowled at the LED light as I snatched a glass out of the pantry. I would get a glass of wine, go back to bed, and chew you out in the morning. When I woke up, your warm body would be next to me, long brown hair spread out on the white of the pillow. I would poke you in the side, and you’d lean up, grinning crookedly. Then you’d see my scowl and roll your eyes, turning back over and closing them. Eventually, you’d turn those hazel orbs back in my direction and I’d melt, forgiving you once again.
Don’t worry.
I won’t.
You’ll tell me that it’s just part of your job. I shouldn't’t worry, you get called out late all the time. Part of being a reporter. Fresh new leads know no time.
How was I to know that you’d be the next headline?
I jumped, spilling the bloody wine all over the cream of my nightgown, and cursing under my breath, moved towards the sound of the doorbell.
Who in the world would be there at this time of night?
As soon as I saw the red and blue lights flashing, I knew it was a mistake. I couldn't’t explain how, but I did.
Calmly, I opened the door to see an officer standing there by your buddy Andrew.
He had tears in his eyes.
Words floated past me, as insignificant as bubbles floating past those sea weeds.
It was a stray bullet…
I told him not to go in there.
We found out later it wasn’t just a drug investigation; it was a bust. We never should have sent him.
I’m sorry.
So sorry.
So, so, so, so, so, so, sorry.
I felt the pattern of the scratchy doormat etching into the bottoms of my feet as I closed the door in their faces.
“Sorry. So sorry. Rude of me.”
I whispered as I climbed the carpeted stairs back to our bedroom, where the bathroom smelled of your shampoo.
You couldn't be gone. I wouldn't let you.
Don’t worry.
I’m not.
Dressing robotically, I pulled a comb through my hair and slipped on pair of shoes, getting ready to go down to the station.
I was supposed to identify your body. I knew I’d be able to tell them that it wasn’t you. A horrible mistake.
I braced myself, stoic and still as stone, as they wheeled your body into the room, and I didn't break down until I realized your long hair was still wet from the last shower you took.
It wasn’t a mistake.
Oh, dear God.
It wasn’t a mistake.
I never would have let you go if I knew it would be the last time I’d see you alive.
You said you’d be back soon. Around midnight, probably. No later then two or three.
Don’t worry.
I did.
Swishing like sea weeds swaying underwater, my nightgown pooled around my ankles as I crawled out of bed for a drink. I put on that gown for you, because it was your favorite. And -like I was those sea weeds- everything seemed like it was underwater. Sound traveled as slowly as my legs seemed to, tramping down the carpeted stairs. I was beginning to get angry, to cover up being anxious. Anger was easier then nervousness, especially when it was directed towards you. I wished half-heartedly that the stairway was wooden, because at least then I could stomp; throw my weight around a little.
Don’t worry.
I am.
I flicked on the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, flinching as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights.
The oven light read 3:44
I scowled at the LED light as I snatched a glass out of the pantry. I would get a glass of wine, go back to bed, and chew you out in the morning. When I woke up, your warm body would be next to me, long brown hair spread out on the white of the pillow. I would poke you in the side, and you’d lean up, grinning crookedly. Then you’d see my scowl and roll your eyes, turning back over and closing them. Eventually, you’d turn those hazel orbs back in my direction and I’d melt, forgiving you once again.
Don’t worry.
I won’t.
You’ll tell me that it’s just part of your job. I shouldn't’t worry, you get called out late all the time. Part of being a reporter. Fresh new leads know no time.
How was I to know that you’d be the next headline?
I jumped, spilling the bloody wine all over the cream of my nightgown, and cursing under my breath, moved towards the sound of the doorbell.
Who in the world would be there at this time of night?
As soon as I saw the red and blue lights flashing, I knew it was a mistake. I couldn't’t explain how, but I did.
Calmly, I opened the door to see an officer standing there by your buddy Andrew.
He had tears in his eyes.
Words floated past me, as insignificant as bubbles floating past those sea weeds.
It was a stray bullet…
I told him not to go in there.
We found out later it wasn’t just a drug investigation; it was a bust. We never should have sent him.
I’m sorry.
So sorry.
So, so, so, so, so, so, sorry.
I felt the pattern of the scratchy doormat etching into the bottoms of my feet as I closed the door in their faces.
“Sorry. So sorry. Rude of me.”
I whispered as I climbed the carpeted stairs back to our bedroom, where the bathroom smelled of your shampoo.
You couldn't be gone. I wouldn't let you.
Don’t worry.
I’m not.
Dressing robotically, I pulled a comb through my hair and slipped on pair of shoes, getting ready to go down to the station.
I was supposed to identify your body. I knew I’d be able to tell them that it wasn’t you. A horrible mistake.
I braced myself, stoic and still as stone, as they wheeled your body into the room, and I didn't break down until I realized your long hair was still wet from the last shower you took.
It wasn’t a mistake.
Oh, dear God.
It wasn’t a mistake.