A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: The following chapter contains topics some may find triggering and topics for which some may have moral or ethical objections. If you are sensitive to the topics of death, loss, disease, please skip to the bottom of this chapter for a less triggering summary.
Please know that I have experienced this from both perspectives. I approach every part of this chapter from a sincere and personally painful place.
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"Oh my God, Augustine!" I cried. "If you didn't do it, just say no! Why are you not saying no?!"
"It's . . . not as simple as that."
I could barely breathe. "It's a yes or no question! Just say no. Please, say no!"
"I did not murder my wife!" he yelled back.
"Then why can't you say no?" I asked, my heart still lodged in my throat. "Why can't you say no?!"
His face twisted with rage. "Do you know what it feels like to love someone unconditionally?" he said, his tone harsh and threatening. "To love them so much you would do anything for them?"
I stared him in the eyes. "Yes."
"Anything?" he asked again. "Even if that meant helping them die?"
I blinked a few times, the pieces falling into place after his words settled on my ears. My pounding heart slowed to a guilty thud. "Shit. Augustine, I'm so sor—"
"Get out."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Get out!" he roared. The fear and pain behind his expression—so much like Matthew's—tore my heart to shreds.
He stepped toward me and I scrambled through the door to escape his anger. He slammed it loudly behind me. Inside the room, I heard things crashing and things shattering against the walls. I slid down the wall to the floor and covered my mouth to muffle my sobs.
When the sounds stopped and another door slammed, I left him alone, knowing that was the last thing I should have done.
. . .
Hours later, unable to sleep or be alone with myself, I busied myself by getting my bags ready for tomorrow's move. My hands shook like leaves. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and tried to calm myself enough to fasten the buckle together.
I wasn't sure if we should still go, or if he could. The only thing keeping me sane was knowing I would get to see Crystal once we got there. I needed her—needed to hear someone tell me I wasn't the monster I felt I was. More than that, I needed Augustine to know that I was sorry, that I understood, and that I still cared for him.
But I didn't know if he'd even talk to me. All I knew was that if I didn't try, it was going to wreck me.
I made my journey down to the ground floor. My pace slowed to a creep the closer I came to his door. When I found it cracked open, I started to feel hopeful. But when I went inside, all that changed.
The floor was covered in strewn items and bits of broken glass. His bedroom door ajar as well. I tiptoed over and peeked inside only to find it empty. He wasn't there. My anxiety worsened.
I left the room, careful to avoid the glass. In the room down the hall, Colin stood with the butler and some of the other staff. He saw me approaching and looked at me with a worried expression.
The butler turned around, gaining a look of surprise when he saw me. I had forgotten I had been crying for hours. My face must have looked ridiculous. "Sorry. I was looking for Mr. Montgomery," I said to Colin. I didn't have the energy to deflect the butler's judgments. "Have you seen him?"
"No, ma'am. Not recently."
"When was the last time you did?"
"When we arrived earlier this evening, ma'am," he answered. A chill prickled my skin when I realized that I knew where he was. I looked over my shoulder up the grand staircase. "Did you need help finding him?"
"No," I said. "Thank you, it's alright."
With nervous energy, I ran up the stairs and through the ballroom, hoping I was wrong. But I wasn't. I could hear him before I had made it down the hall.
I stopped in the doorway when I saw him. He sat on the floor, leaned against the side of the bed where the sheets were undone, folded over with his head hanging between his knees. His body wracked with his sobs. "Augustine."
I ran and dropped to my knees in front of him. His fingers were tangled in his hair so tight his knuckles were white. His quick, ragged breaths continued. He was going to hyperventilate if he continued like this.
"I need you to breathe. Please," I begged him. "Look at me." His eyes lifted to mine in a glare. "I know you hate me, but you have to breathe."
I inhaled and exhaled audibly. His hiccupping slowed as he tried to follow my breathing the best he could. After a few moments, his breaths, while still choppy, calmed to discernable inhales and exhales.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"She was ill," he seethed. "And in pain—so much pain. I would never have—" a sob kept him from finishing his sentence.
"I know. I'm so sorry."
After a few more breaths, he leaned up, letting his arms relax atop his knees. He closed his eyes and let out his next breath through pursed lips.
His hair was disheveled from his grip, his brow stitched in pain, his eyes red and wet. I had never seen him so vulnerable and raw. I was finally witnessing the version of himself he had barricaded beneath layers of detachment, locked as deep down as he could. This what I thought I wanted. Now all I wanted to do was take everything back.
When his eyes opened again, he looked down his nose at me with a scowl then looked away. I couldn't tell if he was mad at me or mad at himself.
"She was ill," he repeated. "And not the kind of ill where there's hope."
"What did she have?" I asked as gently as I could.
His brow furrowed. "Cystic fibrosis."
I had heard of it before, but I wasn't sure of the details. Something to do with malfunctioning glands and chronic respiratory issues. What I knew for sure was that it was incurable, it was hereditary, and that most with the condition were lucky to see forty. My heart sank. "So . . . So you knew before . . ."
"We had children?" he completed my question with a self-deprecating smile. "Yes."
I didn't know what to say.
"Everything between us happened so fast. She didn't tell me. Not until we knew about Matthew and by then it was too late. We were too in love. With each other and with him." His voice was low, his eyes welling with tears. "I should have known. We were never around people, never went anywhere really . . . but I thought nothing of it. All I wanted in the world was to be with her."
I wasn't sure if he was telling me or if he was simply ruminating. His guilt was so palpable, I felt it too.
He sniffled. "I brought children into this world, knowing it could shorten her life—knowing if it didn't, they'd lose her all the same," he said. He looked me in the eyes, his face still twisted between guilt and disgust. "How dare you tell me to be a better father . . . when the only thing I've done is hurt them."
My brow furrowed. "Don't say that."
"You don't understand." He started to cry again and hid his face in his hand. "She didn't let on. Most people wouldn't have known. Until the twins put her in such a worse state. At the end . . . it was either she was medicated or she was in horrible pain. She couldn't function without medication, but could barely spend time with the children without drifting off under the sedation it caused. She couldn't bear either one. It tore her apart every time she couldn't be with them," he explained. "The doctors said she could survive another six months. Maybe a year. I would have done anything to help her, to take away her pain. But she believed there was only one way to do that."
"No . . ." I said under my breath.
"She begged me, but I pleaded with her to give us just a little more time," his voice quivered. "She told me there would be no right time to go. She'd rather it be on her terms, when she felt it would be the least painful for them."
I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, unable to speak past the clenching pain in my chest, but not able to look away from him either.
"So, I did it. I got her the pills," he cried, hiding his face behind his hands. "She took them and . . . it was so slow, and yet so fast. The way she relaxed in my arms," his hands trembled like his gasp for air. "I couldn't believe . . . she was gone." He doubled over and began sobbing again.
I stared at him and could do nothing but feel myself shatter. The tears streamed down my face.
The way someone goes while medicated. The slow slip, like drifting off to sleep. It doesn't register at first—at least it didn't for me. They're still there. Still warm, still looking the same. They had been there in that vulnerable, feeble position for so long it had become their new normal. Now, everyone around you is saying they're gone. But that doesn't make sense.
They're right there. But yet, they're not.
I pushed his knees aside and crawled onto him, wrapping myself around him in an attempt to give him any comfort I could. His cries were the most heartbreaking sound of my life. I squeezed him as hard as I could, trying to ground him and keep him from slipping back into his panic. On his shoulder fell my own tears. Beneath the sound of his sobs were my own.
"I'm so sorry," I cried. "I'm so, so sorry."
He wrapped his arms around me and gripped me hard. His sobs continued, his body wracking against mine. "How . . . do I tell them?" he asked through his hiccupping. "How . . . do I tell them . . . what I did?"
I ran my hands over his hair, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. A silent way of telling him it would be okay.
His breathing started to become erratic again. His fingers dug into my skin. I knew he needed help, but I couldn't give it to him like this.
I leaned back and brushed his hair back and out of his face. He pulled me close again. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you," I assured him. His eyes opened and his breathing slowed. I covered my hands with my sleeves and wiped them over his cheeks. "But I need to get you out of here, okay?"
"Okay."
I stood and helped him to his feet. I wrapped my arm around his middle to brace him. When he looked back at the bed, I pulled him away faster.
. . .
Only when I had him back in his room and a hefty dose of anti-anxiety medication in him did he calm. I left him only for a few minutes to make sure the twins were still settled and in bed and to refill his glass of water in the kitchen. When I came back, he was exactly where I had left him.
He laid on his back, splayed out, staring blankly at the ceiling with glassy eyes. I sat his glass on the nightstand. "Come here," I said to him gently. "You can't sleep with all your clothes on."
He looked over slowly, his gaze vacant. I held my hands out to him and he took them.
I sat him up and started helping him with the buttons on his shirt. I peeled it from him, followed by his belt. His hand smoothed over my hair and pulled my head to his. He pressed his lips to my temple and lingered. A silent thank you.
His eyes found mine. "Lay down," I told him softly. He did so, and I rid him of his pants and coaxed him into a better sleeping position.
"How was it?" he asked, his voice quiet and raspy. "The children's therapy."
I blinked and looked down at him. "We don't have to talk about that right now." I went back to settling the covers.
"Does Sebastian remember her?"
I hesitated, not wanting to answer. "No, I don't think so. I'm sorry."
His brow furrowed ever so slightly. "And Tabitha?"
"She does, mostly. But . . ." I didn't want to say it. His eyes moved slowly to look at me. "She said she jumped into the river on purpose. To see if you loved her enough to save her."
He said nothing when he looked away but I could see the tears starting to build in his eyes. I laid down next to him and stroked my hand over his hair while he stared off into space.
"They're young. They're trying to work out what happened and what it means," I tried to explain. "You just need to talk to them. If you don't want to tell them the painful parts, don't. But keeping them at arm's length as a way to protect them will only hurt them more."
"How am I supposed to do that when I can't even . . ." he trailed off, his sentence as muted as his emotion.
"You don't have to be strong all the time, Augustine," I told him. "You're allowed to feel this. You're allowed to be broken even while trying to keep someone else together."
He stared at me for a moment then laid his head on my chest. He said nothing else the rest of the night.
. . .
That night, we didn't have sex, but we had something just as intimate.
We slept with his arms wrapped around me and his legs tangled with mine as if to keep me from running away. He slept heavy and deep, never waking when I shifted my weight or when I ran my fingers through his hair. I found him beautiful when I brought him to this point of placidity, but hated to see him brought here by grief. I wanted nothing more than to bring back the version of him I knew before.
If that was even possible.
I reached over slowly and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Quietly, I typed and sent only one message.
I need your help again.
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A/N: Augustine's wife, Lara, suffered from a terminal disease. She made the difficult decision to reach the end of her story on her own terms, with the help of her husband and her physician.
Augustine feels guilty for two reasons: choosing to have children with the woman he loved, knowing she would pass away at a young age, and for assisting in her choice of end-of-life care.
Thank you for reading. See you in the next chapter.