Status: 2 of 50
Dead End
i couldn't save her and it breaks my heart
“Mary?” I whisper. My feet carry me over to stand beside her, sitting at the table. She has her hands around a cup of who-knows-what, and her eyes are blankly staring into the distance. I kiss her gently on the forehead before sitting in the chair beside her and taking the cup from her hands. Her eyes snap into focus the second I take the cup away, but then she stares at me, her eyes returning to that blank state.
“Mary, you okay?” I ask softly. I know how she thinks, I know how she feels, I know how she deals with it. She doesn’t know I know because she thinks if I know, I’ll try to help her. But every time I try to think of ways to help her, my mind comes up as a blank.
She nods slightly. I smile sadly at her obvious lie, knowing I should pretend to believe it. And I do. I say, “Alright then. Would you like any breakfast?” And she shakes her head. Maybe I should make her eat because her wrists look so thin, and like they’re about to snap, and her cheeks have become hollows, as with her eyes.
But I leave her be. I can’t force her to eat; I can’t force her to do anything. When she’s ready, she will start eating again and stop taking those pills. When she’s ready, she’ll stop cutting herself and she’ll write happy songs rather than the depressing ones she writes now. When she’s ready, her eyes will focus properly and she’ll smile again.
That’s what I tell myself.
“Mary, I’m going to work now,” I tell her. I keep saying her name, hoping she’ll listen to me. Hoping she’ll become the wife she used to be and hop off her chair, lay a kiss on my cheek and tell me not to work too hard. If she was the wife she used to be, she’d walk me to my car and whisper in my ear that she loves me and she’ll miss me while I’m gone.
But since she’s not the wife she used to be, she just nods slightly. Her eyes don’t look at me; her lips don’t murmur that she loves me. It’s been a while since she's said she loves me and I miss that every day. I try to understand what she’s going through but all I want is the old Mary. The happy Mary. The Mary that loved me.
I sigh softly and leave the house, leave my destroyed wife behind. Sometimes I wonder if she’d be better off dead, if she’d be happier dead. Then I feel bad for thinking like that; I never want her dead, although I guess I’d accept it if she wanted to die.
The car starts and I leave the house, and her, behind.
I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m so sorry. I know you know how I feel and you never help. I wish you can, but I don’t think you can. And what hurts more is that I know you still love me and I know this will hurt you and I know I will make you cry.
I’ve tried to distance myself from you to make you not love me, but it doesn’t seem to help. You still love me and I still love you, though I act like I don’t. And I know that hurts you. I know you want me happy. I wish I could be happy, just for you. But I can’t.
I’m sorry.
Driving home, my thoughts are all focusing upon Mary. How can I help her? I can’t. How can I make her happy again? I can’t. How can I make her love me again? I can’t. And that breaks my heart.
I’m driving into the street I live in when I start to feel closed in. My breath is catching in my chest and my hands are gripped so tightly onto the steering wheel, my knuckles have turned white. Then I notice a stillness in the air that wasn’t there when I left for work.
I park in my driveway, and try to ignore my paranoid feelings when I see curtains in neighbours’ houses flickering open and closed. What’s going on? They seem to be staring right at me, through the crack in their curtains. Every single one.
I step into my house and realise everything’s dark, all the lights turned out. “Mary?” I call. Maybe she’s gone to bed early or something. She never used to go to bed before I came home from work, but considering she doesn’t love me anymore, she probably did.
I turn the lights on and walk to my bedroom, pushing open the door softly so as not to wake her. She’s not in there. My first thought is that maybe she actually left, but then I see all her clothes and possessions are still there. I breathe a sigh of relief – I don’t know what I’d do if she left.
I search the other rooms, the kitchen, the dining room, the lounge room for her but I still can’t find her. Worry starts to seep through me. This has never happened before – usually she’s in the bedroom or kitchen and occasionally the bathroom.
I realise I haven’t looked in the bathroom yet.
When I reach the door, I knock softly, thinking maybe she’s in the bath or on the toilet and doesn’t want me to come in. But when she doesn’t answer, I start to worry again. Knocking louder and receiving no answer, I try to open the door. It’s locked. For some reason, this turns my blood icy.
Just as I break the lock and enter the room, sirens of an ambulance shatter the silence I’ve been drowning in. The sirens are nothing to me as I suddenly see the sight on the floor. It’s Mary, it’s Mary, bright red with blood, a gun beside her. A piece of paper is stuck to the mirror with blue tack. I lean over and grab it, wanting to read her words, to hold onto something that was held by her when she was...alive.
She’s lying on the bathroom floor
Doors locked and no one knows
Cuts bleed from her life before
Time heals but the scars still show
I love you.
Tears blur my vision and drip onto the lined page before me. If she hadn’t said I love you, if she hadn’t said I’m sorry, I’d be able to control the tears. But she said that, and it makes me realise how I really couldn’t help her. All I could do was love her – which is what I did and still do. And it did nothing. She’s gone now.
I collapse to the floor beside her. I can’t even look at her; her body is just too destroyed for that. This scene, of her lying on the floor in her own blood and a gun beside her, it’s just so full of emotion. It’s unbearable, it’s overwhelming, and my tears are falling, whether from my grief or her pain, I don’t know.
The sirens stop outside my house, and I now know the neighbours had heard the gunshot and that’s why they were peeking through the curtains, wondering whether to tell me or to let me find out by myself. One of them must have rung for an ambulance, but of course it’s too late.
It’s too late to save her. And that breaks my heart.
“Mary, you okay?” I ask softly. I know how she thinks, I know how she feels, I know how she deals with it. She doesn’t know I know because she thinks if I know, I’ll try to help her. But every time I try to think of ways to help her, my mind comes up as a blank.
She nods slightly. I smile sadly at her obvious lie, knowing I should pretend to believe it. And I do. I say, “Alright then. Would you like any breakfast?” And she shakes her head. Maybe I should make her eat because her wrists look so thin, and like they’re about to snap, and her cheeks have become hollows, as with her eyes.
But I leave her be. I can’t force her to eat; I can’t force her to do anything. When she’s ready, she will start eating again and stop taking those pills. When she’s ready, she’ll stop cutting herself and she’ll write happy songs rather than the depressing ones she writes now. When she’s ready, her eyes will focus properly and she’ll smile again.
That’s what I tell myself.
“Mary, I’m going to work now,” I tell her. I keep saying her name, hoping she’ll listen to me. Hoping she’ll become the wife she used to be and hop off her chair, lay a kiss on my cheek and tell me not to work too hard. If she was the wife she used to be, she’d walk me to my car and whisper in my ear that she loves me and she’ll miss me while I’m gone.
But since she’s not the wife she used to be, she just nods slightly. Her eyes don’t look at me; her lips don’t murmur that she loves me. It’s been a while since she's said she loves me and I miss that every day. I try to understand what she’s going through but all I want is the old Mary. The happy Mary. The Mary that loved me.
I sigh softly and leave the house, leave my destroyed wife behind. Sometimes I wonder if she’d be better off dead, if she’d be happier dead. Then I feel bad for thinking like that; I never want her dead, although I guess I’d accept it if she wanted to die.
The car starts and I leave the house, and her, behind.
XXX
I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m so sorry. I know you know how I feel and you never help. I wish you can, but I don’t think you can. And what hurts more is that I know you still love me and I know this will hurt you and I know I will make you cry.
I’ve tried to distance myself from you to make you not love me, but it doesn’t seem to help. You still love me and I still love you, though I act like I don’t. And I know that hurts you. I know you want me happy. I wish I could be happy, just for you. But I can’t.
I’m sorry.
XXX
Driving home, my thoughts are all focusing upon Mary. How can I help her? I can’t. How can I make her happy again? I can’t. How can I make her love me again? I can’t. And that breaks my heart.
I’m driving into the street I live in when I start to feel closed in. My breath is catching in my chest and my hands are gripped so tightly onto the steering wheel, my knuckles have turned white. Then I notice a stillness in the air that wasn’t there when I left for work.
I park in my driveway, and try to ignore my paranoid feelings when I see curtains in neighbours’ houses flickering open and closed. What’s going on? They seem to be staring right at me, through the crack in their curtains. Every single one.
I step into my house and realise everything’s dark, all the lights turned out. “Mary?” I call. Maybe she’s gone to bed early or something. She never used to go to bed before I came home from work, but considering she doesn’t love me anymore, she probably did.
I turn the lights on and walk to my bedroom, pushing open the door softly so as not to wake her. She’s not in there. My first thought is that maybe she actually left, but then I see all her clothes and possessions are still there. I breathe a sigh of relief – I don’t know what I’d do if she left.
I search the other rooms, the kitchen, the dining room, the lounge room for her but I still can’t find her. Worry starts to seep through me. This has never happened before – usually she’s in the bedroom or kitchen and occasionally the bathroom.
I realise I haven’t looked in the bathroom yet.
When I reach the door, I knock softly, thinking maybe she’s in the bath or on the toilet and doesn’t want me to come in. But when she doesn’t answer, I start to worry again. Knocking louder and receiving no answer, I try to open the door. It’s locked. For some reason, this turns my blood icy.
Just as I break the lock and enter the room, sirens of an ambulance shatter the silence I’ve been drowning in. The sirens are nothing to me as I suddenly see the sight on the floor. It’s Mary, it’s Mary, bright red with blood, a gun beside her. A piece of paper is stuck to the mirror with blue tack. I lean over and grab it, wanting to read her words, to hold onto something that was held by her when she was...alive.
She’s lying on the bathroom floor
Doors locked and no one knows
Cuts bleed from her life before
Time heals but the scars still show
~ Save Her by CrashdietI’m sorry, Mikey. I needed to. I can’t live anymore.
I love you.
Tears blur my vision and drip onto the lined page before me. If she hadn’t said I love you, if she hadn’t said I’m sorry, I’d be able to control the tears. But she said that, and it makes me realise how I really couldn’t help her. All I could do was love her – which is what I did and still do. And it did nothing. She’s gone now.
I collapse to the floor beside her. I can’t even look at her; her body is just too destroyed for that. This scene, of her lying on the floor in her own blood and a gun beside her, it’s just so full of emotion. It’s unbearable, it’s overwhelming, and my tears are falling, whether from my grief or her pain, I don’t know.
The sirens stop outside my house, and I now know the neighbours had heard the gunshot and that’s why they were peeking through the curtains, wondering whether to tell me or to let me find out by myself. One of them must have rung for an ambulance, but of course it’s too late.
It’s too late to save her. And that breaks my heart.