Falling

I was lost in a daydream, lost in my own fear of what was to come.
“You're not wearing your wedding ring.” Dr. Johannson observed. No shit, Sherlock, I thought and also when had he come into my room?
“And?” I asked to recover from my being startled.
He sat down in the chair by my bed. “I just find it interesting.”
“Why?”
“Why would you take off your wedding ring before trying to take your life?”
“My reasons are my own.”
“Fair enough.” He wrote something on his chart.
“And your birthday, what's the reason behind that?”
I ignored him.
I had been here for nearly two days now and was growing inpatient. No one told me about whether or not I'd be released, the other doctors and nurses tended to pretend not to hear me or would tell me they didn't know, bull. The only problem being released would be that I'd have to face my family, which I really had no interest in doing. My restrains were gone which I took as a good sign.
“I had an interesting conversation with your mother.” Oh no, this could not be good. “And you know what she told me? She said she thinks it would be wise to have you stay here to receive the proper and best care.”
“And let me guess, you bought it?”
“I told her that she had no say in what happened. It was up to me whether or not you were released.”
“I bet she wasn't happy.”
“No she was not. If you were a teenager she would have you committed but since you're nineteen, and married, she's, pardon my French, shit out of luck.” I smiled at that, it felt strange to smile, I haven't done it in a long time.
“So doc, am I gonna be a free woman anytime soon?”
“As a matter of fact yes. But I'm prescribing you some anti-depressants.”
“Why?”
“Because you're suffering from depression Mrs Foster, and I also recommend therapy.”
“No thanks.”
“But you must. It's a part of your treatment and release. You'll come to see me once every week. I'll work out a schedule with you. Tonight your husband will come to take you home.”
I stared at the ceiling once more. I should be happy I was going home and weekly therapy sessions were better than months in the psych ward but something was eating away at me. I didn't want to go home with Chris I thought I was done with living a lie, but I was going right back to doing just that. I need to tell him it was over, but did I even have enough courage to do so?
“What are you thinking, Dylan?”
“Nothing.”
“You're going to have to come clean and talk about your problem sooner or later.”
I was betting on the latter.

My wedding ring sat on the nightstand in our bedroom. Chris downstairs getting some coffee. He came to bring me some clothes and take me home when I was finally discharged more than forty eight hours after being admitted. We didn't talk on the drive home and I didn't look at him. He thought Dr. Johannson's treatment would be great for me while my mother said it was at least a start.
I apparently wasn't supposed to be alone, fear I might stab myself with a butter knife or something made him hover around me for the first several hours. The fact that he actually left me alone spoke volumes. Chris was being kind for now but I knew something would set him off, it never took much.
Chris wad taken off from work for this week -I didn't have to be back at my job for another two weeks- and then mom as supposed to babysit me. [Oh goodie. I tried not to think of the looks he gave me, looks of pity, or disgust, nothing remotely love. Well what had I expected, to be dead that's what.
I felt selfish but above all I felt broken, scared and had to keep my mind off of the pain in order not to break down. I felt proud of the fact that I hadn't cried yet, a huge feat for me.
I heard Chris's feet coming up the stairs. I turned off the light on my side of the bed and got between the sheets and closed my eyes. It felt weird being in this bed after everything.
I heard Chris walk past me and sat on the opposite side of the bed. I couldn't sleep but pretending I was, was better than having to force conversation with him. After hours of restlessness, sleep took me, but my dreams, filled with cackled laughter, blood, tears, and the vision of killing another version of myself with a stab of a knife to the heart scared me out of my slumber.
It was nearly dawn. So I went down stairs and sat on the window seat and stared outside of the window. I stayed there all day, only leaving to get a drink of water or to use the bathroom. I stared at the birds that had made a nest in the bush in the front lawn. Winter was finally over and spring was here, a butterfly danced across my field of vision, so free.
Mom had tried to get me to talk but I ignored her. She kept saying I was disgrace and she believed I should be locked up. She really wouldn't be getting mother of the year with that attitude. She stayed over until it got dark and finally went home. I exchanged a few words with Chris but I was really trying to figure out how to tell him I wanted to separate, that our marriage is a sham. But the opportune moment never presents itself to me.
The following days were tough. I was waiting on for the ball to drop, for him to begin the screaming match we so often had. I was lost in my own world, trying not to think about the mess I had made and just how to get out of it. He tried to give me space but I knew he wanted to ask me a million different things. We communicated very little anyway but I knew this was torture for him and so five days after my suicide attempt he asked the burning question, “Why did you do it?”
I stared up at him from across the dinner table, his eyes were no longer sad but pissed. I shrugged my shoulders and looked back down at the food I had yet to touch. “Dylan, give me an answer, I'm your husband for Christ sakes.”
“I hate myself. There, satisfied?”
“Oh honey...”
“Don't patronize me Christopher, I'm not in the mood.”
“I wasn't.” his voice had a hard edge. I felt a fight coming on, the feeling was familiar.
“Just say it.” I said.
“Say what.”
“Whatever is on the tip of that tongue of yours.”
“Fine, okay. You were stupid, so stupid Dylan. Suicide, Dylan, it's the most selfish act in the world and you decide to do it in of all places our bed.” He was standing now. “Was that a dig at me in some way? And you took off your ring, and haven't put it back on yet, why? I deserve answers, so does your family, we only want to help. But no you had to go and try and off yourself. Do you know what it was like for me to find you half dead? On your birthday too. Way to do Dill.”
After he took a pause I asked. “Are you done?”
“No I'm not.”
I got up and walked out of the kitchen, he followed but I didn't turn around as I grabbed my jacket and car keys and headed out the door. If he wasn't so worried about the neighbors I knew he would have followed me, screaming about my selfishness. Instead he stood in the doorway and calmly asked where I was going, a question I didn't answer.