He stood on the back balcony and looked out over the water. The sun was slowly rising and he knew he had to be at work in a matter of minutes; however, every once in awhile he found himself pausing out back, coffee cup in hand, wondering about his most recent decisions.
He leaned back on his heels and took a long drink from his cup. "I mean, how can it be my fault?" he found himself asking aloud, his voice dropping over the deck towards the ground.
"But it is my fault. God, why can't I take myself more seriously?"
His eyes surveyed the new landscape behind his house - the fresh grass, the newly planted shrubs - it was nothing like his apartment back there. It was a lot quieter here too. Hell, his life was always getting quiet like this.
He'd only gone to see her once in the hospital. She looked so vulnerable, so messed up, he couldn't bear the thought of how much pain she'd actually feel when and if she ever woke up. In fact, he didn't know what he'd do when or if she did.
She would have eventually needed him - needed him to help her with therapy; run errands; move her to a more comfortable spot; help her tie up the loose ends. She would have needed to cry on him and scream in agony when she tried to walk. The thought had sent him reeling when he peered down at her pale body, lying attached to the bed. The bandages alone freaked him out.
"She would have needed too much from me," he barely whispered. Realizing just how selfish it sounded out loud, a tear escaped him. He never gave her a chance to wake, never gave himself a chance to see if he could handle it - handle her - in all of her visible need.
Even today, months later, the idea overwhelmed him.
He hated himself for leaving and each time he paused on the patio, he considered whether or not it wasn't the best choice he ever made.
"Someone else is better for her," he said, "She deserves someone who can deal with all that. Someone strong, someone with nerve, someone older and wiser than I am."
He was always defeating himself like this and it hurt more than all that other stuff he thought about and wondered about. For all he knew, she had died days later though he checked the newspaper every morning and never saw an obituary or newstory. He'd moved away shortly after that day in the hospital, to start over, work on his music, and some of those other things he always said he'd try.
But he always wondered about her. Wondered if she ever woke up.
Wondered and hoped a little that she would remember him.
Because he remembered her.
All the time.
Mumbling to himself, he headed back inside to ditch his coffee and head to work. At least here alone, he didn't have to worry about failing her too.
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