Nothing prepares you for death

I was too late.

My legs gave out beneath me and I slumped to the cold floor, the voices and the people surrounding me blurring into nothingness. Somewhere, someone was speaking to me, but the voice trailed off. I had stopped listening. Actually, I couldn't hear anything except a sharp ringing in my ear. A sob burned my throat, but it wouldn't come out.

Regret was once again my closest friend, hugging me further into the ache I felt on my chest. 

I had run. God, I had run. Like a crazy person on the loose. As if my life depended on it. But it wasn't my life on the line.

I was too late.

I couldn't make it in time to say goodbye. 

'He had a few weeks left.' I murmured to no one in particular. My lips trembled as the words left my mouth.

The doctors had said he had a month. This wasn't a month. They were wrong. How could they be so wrong? With all the medical advancements, all the technology today, they should have been able to predict the exact day, the exact hour I would lose him.

They are not God. Even in this situation, I found myself being reasonable.

So who was I to blame for not giving me enough time with him. Who should take the blame for not allowing me a chance to say goodbye.

I'd barely had time with him. After years of resentment and absence, we were finally finding our way back to each other. I thought there would be more time. More conversations. More chances to say everything I'd held back.

I'd condemned him to death. I know I had wished it on him.

Still, didn't I deserve a chance to say goodbye? Was I so guilty that God chose to take my chance at goodbye? If I was so undeserving, what of him. He was a good man, didn't he deserve more time?

I felt hands hold me, trying to pull me to my feet. I didn't resist. My body moved, but I felt hollow.

I must have been standing now because Christian's face came into my view. I couldn't hold it in anymore, so I wrapped my hands around his waist, and leaned on his chest. Once again, he was my anchor, and I clung to him as if holding on tightly would stop the pain from swallowing me whole.

He smelled different. But I didn't care. I just wanted to be consoled. 

I had dreaded this day. For months, i had tried to prepare myself for it. I'd tried to come to terms with it. The inevitable. And yet, as I faced it, I found myself at loss; for words, for thought, for what to feel. 

Who knew nothing could prepare you for the finality of death. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the cold empty silence I was feeling now.

I felt like I was falling in an endless void. I didn't feel like screaming, nor did I feel like asking for help. I wasn't even sure I could be saved. 

Christian led us out of the room, my head still resting on his chest, my hand still wrapped tightly around him. I was walking, but my eyes were closed. 

When I opened my eyes, we were outside and he was guiding me to sit inside the car.

I shook my head to protest as words failed to come out. 

I hadn't seen him yet. They'd covered his body and I had not seen him. I needed to see him before I left.

"Alora! Alora! Listen to me." Hands shook me, a voice breaking through the fog.

That wasn't Christian's voice. I raised my head and got a good look.

It was Henry. 

Now that I thought about it, he'd driven me here. I'd been in the restaurant when dad's caregiver called me. Dad had been asking for me. To say goodbye. He was dying. The moment I had feared was happening. 

Why now? It was two days before the new year. 

Henry had left everything and driven me to the hospital. During the ride, I had begged God to let me get there in time. And with all my might, I ran, through the corridors to dad's room. Still, I was too late.

"Alora. You can't go back in there." He said softly, but his grip didn't loosen.

"I have to, I have to say goodbye even if it's to his lifeless body." My voice finally came out. 

"They don't want you there."

I was fighting him, but he was stronger than me. Still, I fought him. I pushed and punched, kicking for him to let me go back inside. But Henry refused.

"Please. Please. God, Please. I have to—I have to say goodbye. Please." My voice broke.

"Alora. Get a grip. The Callisto's don't want you there. Look," he raised my hand to my face. My eyes steadied and I looked at the cut on my arm. I hadn't felt it. Not even a sting. I didn't even know I had a bruise.

My eyes sought Henry's face in confusion. 

"His wife hit you on your face. She even threw a metal object at you. She wants you gone. If you go back in there, she could do worse. Let's get you home for now. We'll come back another time. I promise."

I shook my head at him. My eyes imploring him to take me back. 

In the end, Henry forced me into the car and drove me home.

I didn't know what time it was, but it was already getting dark. Henry led me into the living room as I leaned on him. I barely registered Christian's voice until he was standing in front of me.

"What happened?" Christian attempted to hold me, but I raised my hand to stop him. I didn't want him to. For some reason, I didn't want him touching me right now. 

He hadn't done anything, and my anger was probably misplaced. But right now, I didn't want Christian coming anywhere near me. 

"Alora." He called after me as I walked up the stairs to my room. 

I closed the door behind me and climbed into bed. I sat, my knees curling up to my chest, and I rested my head. 

Sadness loomed over me. My mind was empty, like a desert, it was completely empty. I tried to picture dad's face from the past, before the cancer, before we became strangers, but nothing came. I tried to think of happy moments from the past that we shared. Nothing was coming. It was like I couldn't remember him.

Why couldn't I remember him? Why was my memory betraying me now?

Christian barged in. Or maybe he knocked and I hadn't heard it. 

He sat down on my bed without saying anything. He moved until I could feel him just beside me. Then he took my hand that was wrapped around my legs. After a few seconds, the smell of alcohol filled my nose, and then I felt a small sting. My head turned in his direction. The first aid box was open on my bed. I didn't see him bring it in. 

Christian cleaned my cut, dressed it and secured it with a plaster.

For a moment, I watched him. The sharp angles of his face softened by something unfamiliar. Was it kindness? Pity?

Anger grew inside of me. The same anger I'd felt minutes ago. 

"I can't figure you out." My voice was small, cracked.

Christian raised his head and looked at me. His eyes shook with an indignation. And he was frowning, or he was pissed. Whatever it was he was feeling, I knew for a fact that the monster inside was about to come out.