regret #2

 

I love my wife a lot. I love her so much and I make sure to be a green flag as they say on the Internet and tell her that every day, every hour. 

We are high school sweethearts; years have gone by and she aged like a fine wine. Her eyes shine like golden apple under the sunlight (my only reason to go with her on morning walks). She has really pretty curly hair flowing down her shoulders; she braids it but I love it more when she lets the breeze play with her locks.

“You should have children; they complete your life and marriage” say our relatives. She completes me and I her, I think to myself inside while smile awkwardly out. As for our marriage, we tried but later discovered she had ovarian cancer and had to let the baggage be taken away, metaphorically and literally. Since then we stopped dreaming about little humans in our sweet home. Sometimes we feel lonely but we feel better as we hear are next door neighbor fail miserably at pacifying her 3 month old.

 I love my wife so much. I do whatever she asks me of. Now, I’m regretting that decision as I look at my wife lying, lifeless on the hospital bed with blood being given to her. Her face is bruised, hell, her whole body is wounded and bandages cover the bloody mess. Her hip is broken and arms too. She is being given oxygen from a tank but she doesn't seem to be breathing and I can't breathe as well. 

I was called last night while in the car on my way to pick my wife up from the bus-stop. I wanted to surprise her by reaching a few minutes early but God has surprised me with His cruelty. When she got down from the bus, from her hometown, it was already 2:00 a.m. - half an hour early and she didn't want to disturb my sleep so she booked a cab. 

“Why God, WHY?” I wail in the hospital as the police tell me what happened. 

“It should have been me instead! Why her?” I can't stop sobbing my heart out, letting my masculine mask slip away. My heart feels heavy like it dropped to my stomach. I can feel my nerves ready to pop at the pressure. “WHEN WAS IT?” my last word comes out choked. I grip the policeman by his collar and ask again. 

“It was around 2:10 am, sir.” He says sorrow filling his face, pitying my wife. His words have a tint of judgment, something along with the lines ‘why was she even out at that time’. 2:10 I mumble to myself. That was when I started from my home, sweet no more. “I should have called” regret fills my voice with guilt. The nurses drag me out as I grab my head and hit myself, “it is all my fault”. 

It's been few hours; clock reads 12:30 p.m. I couldn't sleep all night; my whole body aches from sadness. I’m currently sitting beside my love, as she painfully takes in the oxygen. I am not even sure if she can even breathe now; she moves robotically her diaphragm up and down. There are now more wires attached to her frail, lifeless body. She was medically induced to comatose for faster recovery. “When will she wake up?” I asked the doctor an hour ago. “At least a week, it could go for a month, a year, or...” he paused, looking at my dried up eyes with pity. “Or never” I finish the sentence; he nods and says he’s sorry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so so sorry, I’m sorry for everything.” I say over and over again until I choke on my words. I take my wife’s hand in mine and rub as I apologize for what felt like days. My stomach hurts, my head hurts, my eyes, my mouth, my whole face’ everything hurts but the pain in my heart is more but not more than her’s.

At 4 pm the police wake me up from the chair beside her. They take me out to the canteen in the far end. The whole walk I was hoping for something, ANYTHING that screamed justice, all to no avail.

“WHAT”? I scream my lungs out at the police words. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANT CATCH THOSE F-CKERS? MY WIFE IS DYING OFFICER, HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?”  This time it’s not the sadness that overwhelms me but the boiling rage. “yes sir, but the place was secluded and no cameras were to be found”, he started patiently, still maintaining the same subtle judgmental tone as yesterday, he continued, “until and unless your wife wakes up and gives a description, we have no leads.”

It takes me a whole minute to comprehend his words. But one thing struck out the most, “until and unless? You don’t think my wife would make it?” I say it more like a statement than a question. “C’mon sir, she IS 60 years old,” he says matter-of-factly. The boiling rage in my heart reaches my fist and I hit the police right in his face. He grimaces, holding his broken nose, other offices stunned at the visual. 

“I love my wife so much, maybe too much. Just tell me you can’t do your f-cking job. I will take care of it.” I exit the canteen, leaving the policemen’s jaw hit the floor. None of them dared go after me for they will be humiliated to have been hit by a 60 year old man.

I reach the parking lot; get in my Cadillac, “I guess I have to handle this, my love. Wait a couple of days. I will bring you justice. I love you, so much.” I start the car; my face is calm, so calm that it’d scare others if they saw me. “Maybe too much.”