Dawn's gray light crept into the window, coldly illuminating the frantic movements of the doctors. A frenzied series of beeping accompanied the carefully calculated chaos, the shouting. Then there was silence. The doctors looked at the clock.
The man, ragged and haggard, returned from breakfast. He felt the silence envelop him like a blanket. He'd heard it before. A scream pierced the room. Cold brown coffee washed the floor.
It was 4:47 A.M.
--
Two weeks. Two weeks was all it had taken. The tombstone reared before him, an ugly, unfeeling slab. It was a poor tribute to- to..
He couldn't think. The flowers fell from his hand. Their yellow eyes stared at him accusingly. Tomorrow he would bring roses. She had never liked forget-me-nots anyways.
He bent, his hand scooping up a mound of dirt, its fresh, heady scent seeming to taunt him. Bile rose in his throat. He slipped the ring off, set it down gently, and covered it again. What was it, closure, a way to forget? It was over, in any case. It hit him hard, and he cried.
--
Forty-eight days had him back to forget-me-nots. Yesterday had been the wildflowers. They were still there, bright colours seeming to taunt him through their coat of frost. He set the flowers down, as always. He reached to pick up the old ones, as always. He stopped. He couldn't let them join the rainbow of the dying. It hurt too much. Boots crunched in the predawn frost as he walked away.
--
Seven months since the accident. Each one of them had hurt. Slightly less now, maybe, as the nightmares began to smell a bit less like blood. It was raining. Simple today, just some daffodils. He brushed aside the winter's corpses, laying the new ones tenderly in the mud.
The trees' branches hissed ominously in a sudden gust of wind. He looked up, startled. There was a girl staring at him a few aisles away, her hair burning through the rain. His heart began to beat wildly. She looked about his age, her face was slight and pretty, they could go out to coffee-
There could be no "they". He choked back tears. Twenty minutes later he was driving on the winding back road with no recollection of how he got back to the car.
--
37 weeks. Or was it 38? The alcohol was seeping into his brain. It was a holiday or something. He didn't care. The pain was bad today.
The booth across him creaked. He looked up, nearly falling out of his seat with surprise. It was the girl, her hair flaming in the dim light. Her eyes were blue, piercing. But no, they were green, they were hazel. Her hair was fading..
Her voice snapped him out of the past. It was melodic, soothing. The night deepened as it washed him away.
The waning moon illuminated him on their walk. She was holding onto him, body pressed up against his for warmth. And he was laughing, rich and full, for the first time in forever.
--
Morning came all too soon. He stared at her, sleep clouding his vision, mind struggling to comprehend. Her hair was magnificent in the morning sun, the natural light bringing out the honey-golds and warm embers. It splayed across the pillows like a pool of blood.
Blood.
He shook himself. He dressed himself quietly and left a note in the kitchen. Red roses seemed appropriate today. A spring wind greeted him as he slipped out the door, and he could have sworn that he heard a faint whisper, a ghost from the past.
"Be happy."
--
A year and 3 months, plus or minus a few days. She proposed tentatively, the guilt of the abnormal customs peeking through her speech. He accepted without hesitation. They cried.
Miles away, the gold band lay forgotten in the earth, an earthworm pressing curiously against it.
--
The night was warm, violin music floating on the honeysuckle-laced wind. They danced together, the yellow light making them heavenly. The pavilion's white columns glowed in the night. Congratulations and good-wishes had bloated them with joy. His happiness was second only to hers.
The dawn had found him in tears, peace filling him inside. An extra bouquet lay over the grave. It had been well over two years.
--
2:34 A.M.. Wake up. It's happening. There was only time for getting dressed- hurry, hurry- and rushing her to the car, carrying her down the steps. The flowers lay on the counter, forgotten. She needed him.
4:51 P.M.. His child was in his arms, her tiny sides rising and falling gently. She couldn't go until tomorrow, but if he wanted to he was welcome to stay in the hotel-
He opted to sleep in the chair next to her, their fingers intertwined. His last, fleeting thought before passing into sleep was that he hadn't delivered today. But it didn't matter. He could always make it up tomorrow.
--
A cold sweat drenched his thin t-shirt. He tried to repress a scream. The nightmare had come back, the coppery stench of blood clogging his nostrils. He'd said tomorrow, but tomorrow was three months later, it seemed. That final crunch rang through his head over and over as he dressed, tears welling up in his eyes. It had been so real..
Thirty-five minutes later, white roses shone in the waxing moon's ghastly light.
--
Five years exactly. He put down the bunch of wildflowers his daughter had collected, trying to apologize somehow. But he knew it was pointless. The dead can't hear. He had so many excuses: first steps, birthday parties, business trips...
He remained silent.
Breakfast: Eggs and bacon, toast and orange juice. A bowl of Cheerios with honey for the little one. The phone rang. She picked it up, handing it to him almost immediately, excitement suddenly blooming in her eyes.
His brow furrowed, then relaxed. He thanked the caller profusely and hung up. She asked him if he had- had he really?
Yes.
She screamed with joy and they embraced, the girl howling with fright from the sudden excitement.
--
The first leaf of autumn fell, hitting the van in a orange blaze, falling off dejectedly when it saw that its attack did no harm. The sun timidly peeked its head over the horizon, its pink hue underlying the dawn's grays. The girls were asleep, lulled to bed by the vehicle's gentle rocking. He could feel somewhere in his heart that they were leaving the hills forever.
He drove past the graveyard without a second glance. It had not known his presence for over a year now. Remorse suddenly pinged through him painfully, and he winced. He didn't understand it. Then it was gone.
The tombstone stood, the graphite remaining emotionless and seemingly untouched since that awful, awful day. It had had no visitors, and the grass threatened to creep up upon the marker of the dead. In the distance, a bird called sleepily. A car's engine roared. And a tear fell down its face- or was it just dew?
The van headed into its next phase of life.
It was 6:47 A.M.