Darkness. Blackness. Emptiness.
I felt as though I was dead and not him.
Everything was gone. I no longer had a purpose.
But have I ever?
Why was I even here?
What’s the point?
There is no point.
Everything was worthless.
I was worthless.
I wish I was dead.
There is no longer a reason to keep holding out.
I can’t be here anymore.
I need to go.
******
I woke up in the hospital. I tried to move but my wrists were handcuffed to the bed.
So I started to scream.
It was the worst scream I’ve ever heard. The high frequency pierced through the air and shivered through me.
A sympathetic-looking lady dressed as a nurse came into my room, pulled up a chair beside the bed, and sat down. She placed a hand on top of mine and I stopped screaming.
Just like that.
“Honey, I’m your doctor. My name is Dr. Sarah VanDred. You’re in a mental hospital right now. You’ve been handcuffed for your own safety. I know you can’t remember because of your amnesia, but you had a mental blackout after your husband died, trashed your house, and then tried to hang yourself. The funeral parlor had sent someone to your house to start to finalize funeral arrangements and go over your husband’s will, but he found you in your living room hanging from the ceiling, and you were choking which is how he knew you were alive,” she told me.
I screamed again. At the top of my lungs. Just a short, ear-piercing, bone rattling shriek.
“Fuck!” I yelled. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
The doctor placed her hand on mine.
“Rebekah, it’s going to be okay,” she assured me.
I started to cry. I couldn’t tell if it was real emotion, pure crocodile tears for effect, or a mix of both. I felt like a pathetic child after scraping a knee.
My hands hurt from the handcuffs.
I wanted to go home and be alone.
These lights were hurting my eyes.
I want Bill.
I want to be dead.
****
I woke up and I was still there.
“Honey, you passed out,” Dr. VanDred told me.
I sighed and stared up at the ceiling feeling infinitely annoyed. All I wanted was to be left alone.
“Your response to grief has been very different compared to my other patients,” the doctor said. I rolled my eyes at her.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I told her. I sensed a sinister-sounding undertone in my voice, unable to tell if I liked it or not.
“You should care. It’s your mental health we’re talking about,” Dr. VanDred replied.
Tears of agony dripped from my eyes but I felt no accompanying sadness, anger, or emotions. I felt so empty inside.
I started struggling against the handcuffs, using what little strength and energy I had to resist. After a few seconds, I stopped trying after realizing it was pointless.
I gave Dr. VanDred the most intimidating death glare I had in me.
“Rebekah, I’m only here to help you two. You need to know that I’m not working against you,” she assured me.
“There’s just me,” I said, the empty, sinister undertone returning. “Nobody else.”
She shook her head. “No, another doctor did an ultrasound when you got here to check for a fractured spine or a tracheal fracture. But it turns out, you’re pregnant. Congrats,” she said.
Then the real, emotion-filled tears came pouring out.
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