Torn Tears

Control

Icy needles are stabbing through my arm where Jess is resting on it. I reach for my phone and press a button to check the time. 5:27 a.m. Too early for too little sleep. I slide my arm from under Jess and roll away from her to massage feeling back into it. Pins and needles burn my skin. I exhale through my teeth when the sensation subsides.

Now that I'm awake, I doubt I'll fall back asleep. I pad barefoot to the calendar hanging from the front of Jess's closet. Monday, July 3, 2017. Usually, I work Monday through Friday from 8 until 4 and Saturdays from 9 until noon. But, I worked yesterday, a Sunday, so today is instead my day off for the week. I text Miles to be sure. A colorfully worded text tells me to quit asking questions that I know the answer to during the ungodly early hours of the morning.

I slip out of Jess's room and into the bathroom. As I go through my morning rituals--using the bathroom, washing my hands and face, brushing my teeth--I remember Jess in my arms telling me that she loves me. I smile, closing my eyes. I can still feel her back against my chest, her breathing lulling me to sleep. If I were given only one word to describe the feeling of having Jess so close that I could smell her shampoo, it would be bliss.

But for the cost of that bliss to be Jess's nightmare--and I know just which one it was--taints the happiness. I remember the nightmare all too well. I thought my best friend was going to die in my passenger seat. I knew what had happened as soon as she said my name in that fatally rough voice. I pulled my keys from my pocket before she even told me to come and I sped like a demon the second she said she was in Hell.

That one syllable taught me of how very fleeting we are as humans, our mortality an all-encompassing disease. Death snakes into our bodies in an infinite number of ways and bites, its fangs severing body from soul. In old age, death can be a beautiful, relieving thing. But when it comes wickedly fifty, sixty, maybe seventy years too soon, it's like a kiss of betrayal, a natural happening twisted by the devil.

All I knew was I was losing her before it was time and she just had to keep her eyes open. To hell with the protocol of waiting for the ambulance. She would have been gone. Forget the rules of family only in ambulances, I would have fought the paramedics. I was a man made desperate by circumstance.

She lived. For any number of medical reasons, she should not have. 

But. She. Lived.

I have thanked God everyday for this gift of life, for intervening. But when they took Jess from me, I wondered if it was some kind of punishment. Or a joke. Save my love then steal her away.

But. She. Lived. 

Again.

It's been murder living with the guilt of knowing my actions led to Jess's memories being hidden. But they didn't kill her and she loves me and that has to be enough.

I dry my hands and my face.  Time to dress. I'm not going to sleep after these thoughts first thing in the morning.

I dig a pair of khaki shorts from my closet and toss a navy blue shirt on my bed. Shoes can wait until later. I'm clothed and combing my hair when I hear the stifled cry.

"What's wrong?" I kneel by Jess as soon as I make it to her room, comb still in my hand.

"Nothing." She blushes furiously.

"Bad dream?" It seems like a good guess.

"Something more embarrassing." She averts her gaze to a fray in the quilt.

"Tell me so I can help, Angel."

"I went to sleep in your arms and when I woke up you weren't there anymore." She mutters the words hastily. If I were not listening so closely, I would miss them.