Say goodbye, is all he can think.
Say something, he begs himself.
But they're angry at each other tonight. There is no farewell, no parting kiss.
There's no promise of another encounter. Only a burning, searing rage. It clouds the mind, guides the hand- shuts the mouth; shuts the heart.
He sits there, alone in an empty house. It's dark, cool and reverberant with an all-consuming silence.
He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, listening to the rain pound against the roof.
He's so mad he can't see straight.
What's her problem? He screams in his head.
Hours later he is still awake, unable to sleep in the darkest hours of the night.
He's never really cared for anyone before, so how is it that the indignation of a simple girl can drive him to the brink of tears?
Tick, tick, ticks the white clock on the wall.
The shadows dance, accompanied by a rhythmic thundering of a song.
The wind outside is fierce.
He hates himself.
He hates her.
She must be calling him.
Forget her, he thinks.
Damn it, he sneers at himself.
"Hello?" he asks angrily.
"Yes, is this Mister Jackson?" a lady replies.
"What?" he says, confused. It's 3 in the morning, who's calling him?
He's a little disheartened that it wasn't her.
Some more words are said, and soon he can't focus; he can't hear anything. His eyes are bothered; he can only hear the blood rush in his ears.
His breath is coming in hard; his chest is tight. There's an odd feeling flushing over him.
He gets in the car and speeds down the road - the rain is strong as ever.
To the hospital, is the singular thought in his head.
There she lies. Bloody, broken, and fading on a crumpled bed fitted with very, very white sheets.
Then the beeps stop and he's pushed out of the room. All he can do is stare at the door.
Hours later, he is still awake, unable to sleep in his empty house.
Years later, he is still hurting, unable to forgive himself and his fragmented soul.
Unable to reconcile the stone in his stomach that tells him, it's your fault.