He opens his eyes to see shards of glass glistening in the morning sun’s ominous glow. He is slouched against the rigid leather steering wheel, cramped from the door collapsing alongside his weak legs. From his lips oozes a red-hot syrup that drips, drips, drips, until it sloshes against the rupturing floorboards, splattering out like a firework in the summer sky. He lifts his right hand slowly toward his face and traces the edge of his rugged jaw, a slurry of blood dispersing across his fingers. He winces from the inaptness of the situation.
If only he paid more attention to the melting yellow lines in front of him rather than Karen’s all too playful laughs vibrating through his wits. If only he kept his dreary mind focused on the license plate in front of him rather than letting it slip into memories he hated to relive. If only he thought about how to put on his left-hand turn signal rather than thinking about the girl who was turning his life into a muddle of misery. If only he cared.
He struggles to sit up, needing to escape from this bizarre situation, but thumps his head on his car’s crumpling roof. He shrieks as metal meets skin and falls back into the cheek-against-the-wheel-blood-in-his-face position.
Stupid Karen. Why did she try to arouse his emotions at suc¬¬h an early hour? Why had she demanded him to pick her up every morning when he could have used those extra ten minutes to sleep instead of subliminally changing the dials on his radio? Why did she insist on “making their relationship work” when they both knew it was ready to be scrapped because he was done trying? Why did he have to fall into another endless trap he knew he couldn’t dig himself out of?
Feeling regret settle over his constricted heart, his eyes dart to the passenger seat, searching for that slender, straight-haired woman who threw them into this mess. His eyes wander to the door ajar and he hears a mix of words that are hastily spoken and packed with worry. His eyes trail the noise and he sees Karen standing a few feet away from his wrecked car with a hand on her forehead and a phone to her ear.
“Good,” he thinks, sighing gently. He closes his eyes for a moment to build up the compulsory nerve to look at the car he collided with. Placing his hands on his knees, he turns his head to the left and peers at the steaming heap perpendicular to his. He can see it’s a blue car – one of those “environment-safe” ones – with a Pennsylvania license plate on the rear bumper.
He clenches his eyes together and pushes open the driver-side door, causing a sharp hunk of metal to slash against his left knee. He gutturally moans but proceeds to step outside of his mess of a car. He gets to his feet and feels a wave of luck weave through his normally doomed self-worth as he wonders how he was left unscathed when his car was ready for the junkyard. Karen gasps when she notices him standing and he turns breathlessly and nods as if to say “yeah, I’m fine.”
He hesitantly shuffles toward the other car, praying the passengers didn’t look as ruined as it did. No matter how hurt the passenger’s are, this entire situation is his fault and it’s something he will have to live with for the rest of his life. As if a broken heart wasn’t enough.
But maybe he’s lucky. Maybe the passengers are okay. Maybe they have a few scratches like him and are going to be completely forgiving; after all, it was early morning on a viciously bright day: the sun could have gotten caught in his eyes. Maybe if they end up being hurt, the hospital will sew them up and they’ll all be able to laugh about it one day over a couple of beers. But maybe things won’t be “okay” and take a turn for the worst. “It doesn’t matter,” he thinks; he’s been in emotional pain before. He knows how to handle it, even with the frailest of hands and tearless of eyes.
But luck wasn’t on his side that day.
He steps toward the driver’s window, his breath shallow in his lungs. He closes his eyes before peering in, thinking, “this is it”. He opens them bit by bit and sees a woman in her mid-twenties with curly-red hair. He leans closer to the foggy window and presses his fingers against it. He squints, looks closer and that’s when his world collapses.
He gasps and stumbles backwards, his hands running through his hair. “This isn’t real,” he tells himself, his chest heaving to release puffs of translucent breath into the winter air. “No, no. This isn’t real. Yeah – just a dream.” He thinks as he steps forward again, his hasty breaths catching in his throat. The throbbing of his heart slows as he composes himself. “It’s not her” he tells himself. He can’t bring himself to even think about suffering pain like losing her literally.
But pain sets forth and he sees her small wearisome body hunched against the armrest. Adrenaline pumps through his lucid veins and he jolts forward, yanking at the deformed door handle. Suddenly she’s in his arms, shallows breaths caressing his red-plastered cheek, her fingers limp against his restless palm.
He’s never been this close to her. Even that fateful night after the office’s casino party didn’t compare to this, especially the fact that this wasn’t intentional. He’d always imagined her warmth radiating across his arms, neck, and chest. He’d always imagined her small fingers intertwined with his under stars and snowflakes. He’d always imagined her weight in his arms as he carried her home after a night of dancing. But he never thought those precious moments would be gathered into this one.
He whispers “I’m sorry” too many times into the nape of her neck. Splotches of blood seep through her sky-blue knit cardigan and her hair is damp with sweat. His glossy eyes scan her helpless face and he feels the tears preparing their arrival. He purses his lips firmly, closing the exit for mournful sobs and feeble cries of “please no” to escape.
The ambulance roars to a halt and two paramedics rush from its back-latched door toward Pam’s car. In one swift motion Pam is whisked out of his arms and is on the pavement, each paramedic hastily checking her pulse and vitals. He plunges to his knees, incapable of believing what is before his widening eyes. Pam, his best friend, the girl who kept him smiling, and the girl who gave his life purpose, is half-dead on a nearly abandoned road, snowflakes dancing around her red curls and melting from the hint of warmth left in her.
Another paramedic appears with a white blanketed stretcher and they lift her promptly and embed her in thin sheets. They throw words at him, as if he was competent in understanding, but he shakes his head in mystification and insists on staying with her. They deny is simple request and dart Pam to the ambulance with great urgency. Jim stands in the road, his eyes unfocused and lackadaisical as a paramedic slams the back door shut, finalizing his fears.
He stumbles to his wreck and jumps in, ignoring the broken glass and ripped leather. Karen yells something at him, but all he hears is, “ride”, so he drives off, leaving the girl who set off this catastrophe under portentous evergreens and a frosty sun.
Clouds blur against their azure backdrop and become pocketfuls of mistakes spewed across a sea of hope. Evergreen trees jump alongside the twisting road to break free from their roots and putrid beginnings before diminishing against a sharp curve. The dotted yellow line meshes into a thick rope of regret, pointing to the destination that will determine her life or death. But he keeps his eyes focused on the flashing sirens before him, knowing that if he loses her this time, he won’t get another chance.
The ambulance makes a sharp turn into a lane marked “Emergency” and barrels toward doctors awaiting her arrival. He throws his wheel to the right and his breaks squeal as he slams the shifter into park and bounds from the car’s collapsing structure. He runs toward the paramedics unloading Pam, an oxygen mask pressed against her mouth, and struggles to spit out words. He hears “low blood pressure,” and “more oxygen,” as his breathing hastens and his legs tremble. Suddenly he hates the sun for being so bright on a morning where there should be rain and darkness. He hates the assortment of pansies embellishing the narrow sidewalk into the sullen room of emergency. But mostly, he hates himself for living in “what could have been.”
Pam enters the hospital, a slew of nurses and doctors at her side. He rushes in behind her, his hand stretched out reaching for hers. His voice cracks when he shouts “Pam!” as if she would wake up to the calling of her name. Sharp hands grasp his shoulders and arms, holding him back from breaking down even farther. A doctor and two paramedics hold him back from the morose hall she is being rushed away to and he screams his regret to the white ceiling tiles.
In just seconds he is sitting in a stiff plastic chair, surrounded by toning pale walls, bleak-eyed visitors, a green plastic plant, and a pile of strewed magazines. A clock ticks and tocks above him, every pulsation a new beginning for his destroying thoughts to pervade his enervated mind. The magazines look intimidating as they scream “Read me! Read me!” while all he wants to do is mesh is fingers to his face and cry regret into his quavering palms. The waiting room’s ambiance burns his dark retinas, acting as a silent reminder of why he’s here.
Relinquishing thoughts devour his mind as minutes turn to hours as his sweating palms circulate from forehead to hair to wrapped around his restive body.
A nurse appears before him and flips his name into a question. He wearily stands and trails behind her down the hall, anguish looming overhead like a rain cloud at a picnic. Time eases into sluggish tempo and he feels like there’s more to living than being alive.
Over the years, he’s hesitated to become close to anyone. He has always been so scared to maintain a true relationship with any person because everyone who said “I’ll be there,” left. But when Pam entered the Dunder Mifflin doors her momentous first day of work, he knew that he would never had to be worried about losing anyone again. He was wrong, though, on all levels.
He finds courage in the deepest parts of his splintered heart as they approach the barren door marked “Beesly”. He steps forward, knowing this is his last chance.
Her intensive care area is surrounded by stark white walls and the uneasy sound of the machine providing oxygen. He can hear each drip and drop of her IV as it flows into her blood line, attempting to heal her broken state. The creaking of the plastic folding chair beneath him rumbles through his ears as he stares at her small hand gently placed at her side. Her tresses are loose without the strains of her usual clip and he tenderly moves a curl from her frail visage. Bruises and gashes swathe her blood-streaked face as “I did this to her,” continues on repeat in his one-track mind. He can barely hear her shallowest of breaths, leading him to understand that the cliché, “life is short” is nothing less than true.
A doctor enters the room, a white lab coat hugging his shoulders, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Get off,” he thinks because he knows an endeavor of console will not make any bit of a difference. He concentrates on her delicate breathing as the doctor gives explanation to her situation. He doesn’t pay attention because he knows no matter what she will never be the same. The doctor disappears, leaving a heavy feeling of alone to torment between his sweaty palms as he wonders if she ever wondered.
He feels like he didn’t deserve this. Yeah, he kissed her while she was engaged. It’s true that he lied when he told Karen “I love you,” when he dreaded how the words slipped from his lips. And yes, he hated himself more than anyone because of his choices. But did that add up to a tragedy of this proportion?
He pushes his hands against his face as droplets of sorrow trickle between his fingers, running down his wrist. He peers at her bleak hand wrapped in his through rushed tears and hates the sound that goodbyes make but forces himself to think of them anyway. He knows that it won’t be fair when he has to wave his hand in that distinctive path of left-and-right and shed a final tear. But he figures he’ll smile again someday and hope that the sun will shine. And maybe he will be okay for it, in the end. Besides, he’s been losing her his whole life. This will just make it real.
As the hours pass, light ascends from the dingy window parallel to her unpromising breaths. He brushes fingers against her narrow cheek, as soft as a whisper, and memorizes the pattern of her skin against his. He leans close and grazes his nose in her hair, her scent tickling his senses and becoming a memory. He looks at her closely, tears tumbling over her pale complexion, and then presses his lips on her cool forehead, his goodbye final.
He stands, tears thinning to sodden residue on his cheek, and releases her nearly lucent hand. It’s late, minutes until a new day, but he feels like the day never began because he didn’t get to see her smile. His whispers “goodbye” and she remains motionless, the cuts on her face, arms, and legs unhealed. He steps back, reluctant to overlook how she laughed in the sun, how she smiled when the skies turned grey, but mostly how she was losing herself because he couldn’t find who he was.
Life gave him someone far beyond any of his expectations. It isn’t right to suffer when it comes to an end.
He lifts his coat from the decrepit chair and staggers toward the room’s exit, the tears finally coming to an end. He places his hand on the door’s frame, and looks back, one last time. He sheds a final tear as he murmurs, “I love you,” knowing he would have been better off if he had never loved at all.
He turns to exit this mournful place when her lips part and a gush of air floods into her collapsed lungs. And that’s when he realized she was worth it.
Author's Chapter Notes:
He knows he would have been better off if he had never loved at all.
Chapter End Notes:
Long, right? I thought so, too. One last part to finish it up: this time, it's a joint chapter...
