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23: Before You Go

Physically, he mentioned headaches, pain in his leg, and reduced energy levels. We pushed through them, slowing life down outside our apartment. Mentally, he battled an internal storm. He grew quiet and disinterested in conversations and me. His post-work showers stretched into thirty, then forty-five minutes.

We slept as two strangers sharing a bed. People bothered him worse than the termites he eradicated while working for his dad.

I wished I had known what those signs meant.

I wished I hadn't blindly trusted the doctor's pills.

I wished I hadn't trusted Nate's, "I'm fine. Just tired."

I wished I hadn't been so fucking ignorant about the mental impact of Nate mixing painkillers and antidepressants.

I wished I had cracked his head open, climbed inside, and seen the storm of hallucinations twisting his thoughts.

I wished I knew the dangers of silence.

Being out of milk prompted a stupid argument.

"Ladybug..." His hand rubbed his forehead. "Let's go to the store tomorrow. I don't want you to get in an accident."

"Huh?" My head tipped to the side. "I'll be fine."

"I can't explain it." He rubbed harder. "I have a bad feeling."

"It's fine. Come with me." I slipped my purse up my shoulder when his hands slammed the wall around me. "Nate?"

"You're not listening!" His voice vibrated off the walls and ceiling, rattling into my bones. The veins in his biceps and forearms raised with his fisted hands. White tips defined his knuckles, and red painted his cheeks.

I rolled my lips in and clutched my purse straps in both hands. With his face and neck flushed with red blotches, he kissed me goodbye with a muttered apology and excuse he was tired.

I promised I would be careful and see him soon. I walked out.

Suffocated by my helplessness, I walked out.

I walked out, and he was gone when I came back.

I walked out.

I failed him. My best friend, my husband, my love, my world.

"And I'll never forgive myself," I whispered.

He dozed off, crumpled over in his old, smelly armchair. We moved off base into a small apartment, and he brought the damn thing with us. Agreeing, I wanted him to be happy.

"Nate?" His chin dipped down, covered in blonde scruff. His eyes were closed and peaceful, and he wasn't moving.

No, he wasn't breathing.

Like the chords in my neck, the room's walls squeezed in. Blackness dotted the perimeter of my vision. I blinked through it, gripping his shoulders. His cheeks were cold.

"Nate!? Oh fuck, no, no, no."

White foam coated the same lips that kissed me before I left. His hand curled around an orange bottle's white cap.

Blinking myself back, tears streamed down my cheeks. I let them flow freely. The memory burned down my throat, pulling the raw cords so tight I couldn't swallow.

Every step forward crippled me because I lost Nate over and over. As reminders and triggers were ripped from my life, I lost more of him. His parents insisted that my last name was the first piece torn off. Moving out of our home was another.