Please Don't Forgive Me

I had lost count of the days, trapped in the damp, dark, dreary garage. Every attempt I made at getting away was futile. I was going to die there for sure. I hadn’t eaten in probably over a week and the only water available came from the leak in the ceiling and the constant rain. When Dane left me he had left a single water bottle on a shelf. The only problem was getting the bottle to my mouth.

I think it was day nine or ten when I heard people outside. I was all but pronounced dead at that point. My vision was blurred, I had trouble breathing and the pain was constant. I felt like I weighed less than a feather, so when search and rescue approached the garage, I almost didn’t have the strength to fight.

They called my name and I started kicking the door. All of the strength I had went into pounding on the door. They made their way over and they were about to make an attempt at opening the door when I started kicking again. “Stop!” I heard Garrett yell. Why was he here? He should have been on tour. “I think she’s on the door.” The commotion ceased and Garrett came closer to the garage. “Ani, kick twice if you’re on the door.” I kicked twice and heard him swear loudly.

I was somehow rescued, but I really couldn’t tell you how. I had been slipping in and out of consciousness and heard the paramedics talking about how my body had gone into shock. My skin was grey and my pulse was irregular and tacky. My blood pressure was in the sewer. Garrett was in the ambulance with me, and I’m pretty sure he was crying—that’s how I knew it was bad.

I would later find out I was in Grade 4 shock, and lucky to be alive. I remember opening my eyes to see Garrett, and then closing them again. I squeezed his hand with the little bit of strength I had, and then I let go.

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When I woke up three days later I was in the hospital—in intensive care. Garrett was sleeping in the chair next to my bed with a look of pain across his face, his hand draped over the bar of the hospital bed, and I picked it up in my own. Compared to my own, his skin was warm and rosy; my own was cool and still somewhere between peach and grey. It was translucent—like premature infant.

When I lifted his hand he woke up. “Anika,” he sighed, relieved. “You’re awake!” He squeezed my hand and kissed my forehead. “I thought I had lost you,” he frowned.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I whispered as loud as I could.

“When you never responded, I hopped on the next flight. John, Jared, Pat and Kenny came back the next day.” I smiled weakly at him.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“We rescheduled the rest of the shows. I knew something was wrong when I didn’t even get a Fuck You as a reply.” He stopped talking for a minute and looked toward the window. “God, Anika, they were ready to give up and assume you were dead,” his voice almost cracked. “I wouldn’t let them give up. I knew you were alive.”

“How could you be so sure?”

“You’re my best friend. If you had died, surely I would have felt like I had too.”