Exhale

Chapter 1 - Shirtsleeves

Rain—enveloped in the cold wind that brushed against my skin as I stood before her. Rain—a bitter, suffocating scent that filled my nostrils as she lay before me. Rain—the liquid that fogged my vision and choked my voice, preventing me from reaching out to her. Rain—it wasn't the only thing that held me back from her.

Bleak black bordered me. Everything seemed to match the person of occasion. Everywhere, everything was one color: black. It was a single tone, a single pigment: jet black, the same shade her locks once were. She laid in a similarly dark casket, which was adorned in a manner that did nothing to represent her. It did nothing to display her caring, bright spirit. It did nothing to display her accomplishments. It did nothing to display the effort she put for the progress of civil liberty and justice. Instead, it showed one thing: a body, the husk of somebody who used to be mine. And that wasn't good enough.

"Alastair," murmured a voice as its owner placed a hand on me, "I'm sorry for your loss."

I glanced back at him, an older man who I didn't recognize, who—like everyone else—was clad in black. I stretched the corners of my chapped lips, forcing a toothy smile.

"It's alright," I replied and then looked back at her, "we weren't family."

His eyebrows rose and his old wrinkles crinkled some more. He knew. He had to. He knew about my obsession with her. He knew about my struggle to save her. He knew about all the time and effort I put in, just for the hope to see her walk and live again. And he could see that they were all for naught.

Immediately, the misty, moist air grew more frigid. Wrapping my white wool scarf, an heirloom of hers, I wrung it tightly around my shoulders. Closing my eyes, I imagined it to be her.

She would always try to sneak up behind me as I sat in the chair nearest to my hospital door. Covering my eyes, she would ask, "Guess who?" I would always respond correctly because the unusual jingle of her keys would always give her away. Still looming over me, she would gently trail her long, pale fingers over my shoulders 'til she would barely touch my bare shoulder blades. Then, she would start to massage me and whisper in my ear, "Al, how are you feeling?"

"Alright," I said aloud, "I'm feeling alright."

"That's hard to believe," she would reply with a hint of playfulness in her voice. "You're reading that book again—isn't this the third time?"

And I would try to justify myself by saying, "the plot changes each time."

Then, she would laugh and mockingly ask, "Please, tell me how."

And then the two of us would talk about the book, all its twists, all its turns, and all its events. But she never minded—she didn't mind boring small talk. After all, she claimed to "adore talking with me." Besides, it's not as if she was entirely oblivious in the discussion—majority of my books were gifts from her.

Thus, we would discuss for hours and hours about all the little details, all the important details, and all the pointless details. I would enlighten her, and she would enlighten me—we shared a beautiful, beneficial relationship. Everything was great when we talked. Yes, we argued. Yes, we fought; still, the highlight of my day was when we were together.

But now, more than words kept us apart.

Now, she's gone—really gone. We can no longer bicker on about the turn of events or lack thereof. She could no longer chide me on my mess nor could she picked up after me. She, for better or for worse, couldn't force me to explore the limits of my world or help me become the best version of myself. She was no longer there to support me. Now, I'm alone—really alone. And nothing could change that.