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TW: TALK OF WANTING TO DIE AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOU ❤️❤️
My eyes are dry.
They shouldn’t be.
I've been crying for two weeks straight, but now there's nothing left in me. They sting and burn, but nothing hurts as much as the empty space beside me. She's gone, and somehow, I still miss her more with every passing hour.
The pain in my chest is excruciating.
I’m not ignoring it any longer; I crave it now. I want to feel something, and this is the only way I feel anything other than complete and utter sadness and desperation. My eyes burn, like I haven’t taken my contacts out in days. Maybe even weeks, but I haven’t.
My glasses sit on my nightstand, exactly where I left them some time ago. I can’t remember when exactly, time seems to not exist anymore. Belly had always liked me better in them. She said they made me look softer.
I snatch them before I can think about it more and hurl them across the room. They hit the wall with a crack before disappearing beneath the dresser.
I turn in our bed, the mattress making familiar noises beneath me. My head is throbbing, and nothing makes sense around me. I look at the spot where she was supposed to be, next to me, but she is not here. Not anymore.
Her absence makes it easy to see her nightstand, and I see all the little trinkets she loved to keep there. Like her favorite hand cream, honey- and French lavender-scented. A vintage clock we got at a flea market in Paris, and behind all of it, a big silver-framed portrait with a picture of us on our wedding day, just out of the ocean. All soaked and caked in sand, but our smiles so big. We look happy.
We were so happy.
Right near the edge of the nightstand, I see her little dish, where she would put her jewelry at the end of the day. Her infinity necklace is there. That is one thing that is out of place. It never used to be there because she never took it off.
Never.
Now it's on the nightstand inside a little plastic bag labeled "Evidence." My stomach drops at the sight of it. I can still see the dark maroon flecks caught in the links. Like I said, she never took it off.
My eyes hurt and they sting really badly, like they do when I don’t take my contacts out for too long, but I don't care. I don't fucking care about anything that has to do with me anymore. Every single thought in my mind is about her.
I shut my eyes, if only to stop the stinging for a moment. It helps, but it’s a double-edged sword. Now I can see her more clearly, I can see her smiling and laughing, always happy.
God, we were so happy.
When I close my eyes, she isn't dead. She's standing barefoot in our kitchen in one of my old Stanford T-shirts, her hair still wet from the shower, stealing blueberries from the box while she packs lunch. I used to pretend not to notice just so I could watch her longer. She'd catch me staring eventually and smile around the berry in her mouth.
"What?" she'd ask.
"Nothing," I'd say bashfully.
"Liar." She would always call my bluff.
Then she'd walk over, put the blueberry between my lips, and kiss me before I could chew it. I remember thinking that if this was all my life ever amounted to, I would die a happy man. I never pictured her dying.
I also remember how she used to leave cabinet doors open. Every single one of them. I'd follow behind her through the entire apartment, closing them one by one while she laughed and insisted she was "coming back in a second." But she never did. I used to complain about it every day. Now, I'd give anything to walk into the kitchen and hit my head on one she'd forgotten to shut.
The pressure in my chest gets heavier and tighter, my memories are catching up to me. My eyes snap open, I can't do this again. I can't relive the last time I saw her; it would end me.
Still, I do it.
I close my eyes one more time. This will be the last. I promise myself. And like the other times, I know I’m lying.
Then she's there, golden and iridescent. She is fifteen and young, at Cousins, nothing like the Belly I lost. That Belly was beautiful, no doubt. But there is something about a woman who grows into herself... that confidence she carried made her irresistibly intoxicating to me. That was the Belly I wanted back. My wife, my lifeline.
I'm realizing I’m nothing without her. I don't want to be anyone without her, do anything or be anywhere. The world has lost all color to me know. Everyone around me keeps acting like I'm a widower.
I'm not.
I'm married.
I was married two weeks ago and I'm married today. And I plan to stay that way until my dying breath. The fact that she's dead doesn't change that. That's paperwork, semantics. Something people say, stupid talk that I don't entertain because I refuse to be the new widower in town.
I roll back to the position I woke up in. I don't know how much time has passed, but judging by how much my body aches, I'm guessing it's been a few hours at least. Now I'm facing the wall and tucked tightly into the corner is a pot with a beautiful plant. Or what used to be a beautiful plant, at least.
I fix my eyes on it and see it clearly: all the leaves shriveled and dehydrated, brown and dead. It's probably been more than two weeks since I watered it. That was Belly’s thing. I don't care about watering it anymore, just like I don't care about so many other things. I feel my tongue in my mouth, and it's rough around the edges. I'm no different from this plant, and I pray to God every day that He lets me die too. The only difference between us is that I want to die, and the plant deserved to live.
I figure it must be closer to the afternoon because I see the shadows change. My phone buzzes near my head. I pull it out from under the pillows, and the picture of Belly on my phone catches me off guard. It’s one I took while we were in Cousins. We were on the dock, after a day out on the boat. She is just smiling away, sunglasses in her hair not a care in the world, all smiley and radiant.
My beautiful girl.
The phone keeps buzzing. Agnes is calling me; I turn it off without thinking twice. That's when my right hipbone starts to dig deep into my side; I guess it's time for me to move again.
I try with all my might, but I only manage to get halfway there before deciding to stay on my back. My body barely answers to me. My energy levels are disturbingly low; I don't even remember the last time I ate something. I'm sure I ate at some point, but I can't remember what it was. I’m feeling the emptiness in my stomach, but there is no way I'm leaving this bed.
This is where I live now, this is my entire dominion. And I don't need anything else.
Every muscle in my body aches for her in a way that I can't describe. If you've ever loved someone and lost them, you know the feeling. And if you haven't, then I envy beyond reason the way that you don't. This isn’t the first time I've lost people I care about. Lossing my mom was devastating. And I'd even lost Belly once before, in a way.
But this was different, this was irreversible. It was final.
And it had been sudden.
For one brief moment in the vastness of time, I had everything I'd ever dreamed of. A career I loved. A beautiful apartment. And every night, when I climbed into bed, my gorgeous wife was there beside me. I was the happiest man in the world.
I had had it all.
Now I still have the job and the apartment, but without her, all of it means nothing. I would trade it all in a heartbeat just for one more moment with her. My eyes start to get wet again, and it shocks me.
I thought I had run out of tears by now.
I must have drifted off to sleep because I'm woken up by a terrible banging. It's very annoying. Please… Someone make it stop. I close my eyes tighter, hoping it will disappear, but it doesn't. It just keeps going on and on.
“Fucking make it stoopp,” I yell angrily into the empty apartment.
It seems to work.
They stop.
“I think I heard him in there. Keep banging,” I hear someone say, and the banging starts again.
“For fuck's sake, make it stop.” I'm furious now.
“Conrad, please answer the door.” I recognize the voice, or at least one of them. It's Agnes.
I can hear the desperation in her tone, but I don't get up. There's no chance. “Go away. Leave me alone,” I beg.
“I'm not sure I can hear him anymore,” she says. “We can try and force the lock or take down the door if you want us to do that, ma'am.”
Take down my door? Who is she talking to? What is going on out there? The curiosity isn't enough for me to get up. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could. I feel paralyzed from the waist down.
“Ma'am, are you sure you want us to do this?” the man asks. “Yes, I'm sure. Please. Do it.”
“This is the police. This is your last chance to come to the door if you hear this.”
Silence.
I'm not here. Not really. I left this place a long time ago. That morning when I went for work, Conrad Beck Fisher, M.D.—respected doctor, exemplary member of society—ceased to exist. He's gone forever. He died when Belly did. My body just hasn't figured it out yet.
One loud bang.
Then another.
And the door gives out.
“Conrad? Conrad! Where are you? Con, are you—”
She stops right at the entry to the bedroom. Then I hear her backing up again to talk to them. "That's all, Officer. Thank you. I'll take it from here.” “Okay. Call us if you need anything else. Have a good day, miss.” and they leave as fast as they came.
Her steps get gradually louder again, and I try to turn to face away from the door, but I used up all my energy screaming before. All I can manage is to curl myself into a ball, the smallest I can make myself, trying to disappear in plain sight. Of course, it's not enough to stop her.
Nothing will ever be enough.
“Get up.” She is angry.
I don't move.
“I said get up. GET. UP.” Her voice trembles with controlled desperation.
I don't react.
When I don’t cooperate, she decides to switch tactics. “Conrad, please talk to me. Are you okay?” she tries sweetly this time.
Am I okay? Is she for real? I remain still.
Agnes comes closer to my bed, kneels beside it, and suddenly I have her face right in front of mine. She scrunches her nose—I'm not sure why—but she still leans close enough to brush the hair out of my face. “Are you thirsty? Do you want me to get you some water?”
I can't lie, I'm dying for a cold, tall glass of water. But I don't say it. I let my eyes do all of the talking and hope that is enough. "Okay…” she says. “I'll be right back. Don't move.”
Finally, a promise I can keep.
She’s smart and brings back the glass of water with a straw. I drink so fast that I almost choke on it, it tastes so good. It's so refreshing, and it's making me feel so alive… I hate it.
I look back at the dead plant in the corner and feel sorry for it. Is this how Agnes felt about me?
“It’s been three days since the last time someone heard from you, Conrad. We were worried sick. C'mon we need to get you out of here,” she says as she comes closer, bumping her foot on the empty bottle of vodka right next to the bed. That was my dinner from last night.
The vodka had burned all the way down, empty stomach and all. I knew exactly what it was doing to my liver. I just didn't care.
“Come here, let's get you seated upright for starters.”
When she moves me, I smell it now. I fucking reek of something rancid and disgusting. No wonder she made that face. She looks at me, and her eyes are full of worry. I must really look like shit for her to pull that face. I, for once, have no idea what I look like. Not that I care anyway.
Agnes studies me carefully and mutters sadly, “Oh, Conrad.” I would have preferred some more yelling to the pitying look she gives me.
She wants to take off my clothes, to try and change the sheets too. I look down at them and all I can think of is that these are the last sheets I slept next to my wife. Despite my odor, I can still smell her too. This is the last place we lay together and talked and kissed and loved one another. And now she wants to erase that? No. I won't allow it.
“I don't want to.” I fight back.
“Conrad, we need to do it. Come on, try and get up,” she urges.
“I'm not feeling too good.” Maybe I can convince her this way?
“I bet you aren’t,” she says sarcastically.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Fuck, I actually said that one out loud. Agnes gives me a look that I've seen on her a thousand times. “Conrad, don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you.”
“I don't care how I look,” I say, brushing it off.
“Yeah, well, I figured that one out already. But we still need to do it, so…” I really don't want to. The thought of starting to get rid of her presence here makes me want to throw up.
“I'm not doing it.” I pout like a disobedient toddler. “And you can't make me.”
“Conrad Fisher, listen to me. I'll drag you out of this bed if it's the last thing I do.” Agnes is no more than 5'4", but right now she looks like a giant to me, all big and intimidating. She's really trying her best—the bad cop, the good cop—but it's not working.
I won't budge. I'm certain of what I want, and it's final.
I can see the tears in her eyes when she asks, “Conrad… please? For her? Will you do it for her?” I see them at the edge of her strawberry-blonde lashes, ready to fall.
This should work. I would do anything in the world for her. Whatever she asked me to do, I would do it, no matter how crazy, how time-consuming, or how ridiculous I thought it was. Against her, I was helpless. A weakling.
“Don’t… don’t you dare use my dead wife against me, Agnes.” I can feel the blood from all over my body rush to my face. “I won’t let you do that. Stop it. I mean it.”
“You stop it. I mean, look at you, Conrad. You are a fucking mess.” Her tears finally break free. “You smell terrible, your hair is a greasy ball, and your clothes… you haven’t changed since the funeral, Conrad… that was two weeks ago. And don’t think I haven’t seen that bottle on the floor.”
Poor Agnes. Trying to convince me was a fool's errand.
“I don’t care. I couldn’t give less of a fuck if I tried, Agnes. If you don’t like the smell, then fucking leave… you know where the door is. In fact, you made it bigger, so it’s easier to find. Just go.” I spit back at her.
She looks at me. I made my offer very tempting. I’m trying all my best tricks from the past to make her leave me, isolate myself and stop this incessant hounding she is putting me through. She is thinking about it, making a quick pro-and-con list in her head, deciding if I’m really worth the trouble. I guess the pros outweigh the cons, because Agnes paces back and forth before yelling back at me.
“THIS IS NOT WHAT SHE WOULD HAVE WANTED FOR YOU!” She gives it her last shot.
Fuck, it finally worked.
I jump out of bed in one clean swoop and stand right in front of her, towering over her, trying to make myself intimidating. I fail at it miserably, I’m uncoordinated and weak. I lack the stamina to even walk two steps in front of her, but I try my best. I put my index finger right in front of her face, trying desperately to show her I’m not playing. The adrenaline is rushing through me, the knot in my throat is tight, but I still get some of my words out before my throat closes up completely.
“You have no idea what she would have wanted. None. Only I know what she really wanted. Me. Not you.”
My voice trembles with every syllable.
“Don't stand there pretending you knew her better than I did. You didn't wake up beside her every morning. You didn't know the way she'd steal the blankets or hum when she cooked or reach for my hand in her sleep. I DID.” A tear falls from my left eye and lands on my lip; I quickly lick it up.
I knew everything about her, every single detail and secret. I knew her darkest secrets and her biggest regrets. I also knew her wishes, like how much she wanted to be a mother. We were about to start trying. When… well, another thing I have to mourn—a version of her I never got to see. Belly as the mother of my children. The children we're never going to have.
My eyes are anything but dry right now.
I try to move back to the bed, the carpet once soft underneath my feet, is now rough and worn-down, much like me. As I take one step my left knee gives out under my weight. I guess the fact that I can’t remember anything about my last meal is not a good thing after all.
Agnes tries to catch me, but I’m about a foot taller than her, and even after losing some pounds over these past two weeks, I’m still much bigger than she is, and I take her down with me. We lie on the floor next to the bed, trying to catch our breath.
“I just want to help you get better.” I choke hearing her say that, such nonsense.This is an abnormal amount of optimism even for he.
“There is no better, Agnes.” I say earnestly. And I feel her body underneath mine stiffen. “There is no going back to normal. This is it for me. She was it for me.”
“But…” Agnes tries to interrupt.
“I just can’t,” I say. “It’s that simple. I can’t live without her.” I let out a deep breath I had been holding onto as I lower myself further into her lap. She takes me without question. I’m nothing but a doomed soul trying to find comfort in someone when I know the only person who can give it to me is not here anymore. I hug her tightly around her hips, so tightly that I might have left a bruise, but she doesn’t complain. She pulls me even closer, making sure I know I can count on her.
“She is not here anymore, but you have so much to live for, so much to give to the world…”
“Don’t make me go on without her, please,” I beg in between sobs that fill the silence of the room. Agnes soothes me the best she can, but it’s not enough. I’m beyond help at this point. She looks up, trying to swallow her own sobs.
“You're still here, Conrad.” I don't want to hear it. “You don't stop mattering because she died.” Easy for her to say. She still has tomorrow to look forward to.
I’m curled up on the floor with Agnes holding me together. Saliva and tears mixing on her lap, but she seems not to care. When I see my glasses on the floor, I reach out and grab them, carefully. Like they're made of glass in more ways than one. I clutch them against my chest and break down all over again. My vision is completely blurred as I close my eyes, and glimpses of her hair come to mind.
It was dark, straight, and incredibly soft. I rub my fingers together, and I can almost feel it.
I also see her face, her smile, perfectly sweet. Like she was. I see her dancing in the rain on our wedding day. I feel her warmth next to me on the couch on Sunday afternoon when we made our way through our list of Hollywood classics. I sense her presence here right now, and I can’t move because I’m terrified of losing it forever.
I touch my lips and remember hers, and the last kiss she gave me.
The last kiss she will ever give me.
“Bye, my love. See you in a couple of hours. I love you,” she said as she gave me a sweet, short kiss on the lips.
An everyday occurrence that I didn’t appreciate enough.
I didn't see her again after that.
I don't remember breathing after I got the phone call. She hadn't even made it a couple of blocks from home before that truck hit her bike out of nowhere. It only took one second, and my life turned into a living hell. Taking from me was the single most precious thing I had. How I wish I'd held her longer that morning. That I'd made her stay or kissed her deeper and more passionately. God, I wanted more.
I wanted more out of life. More of her.
Instead, I got silence. An empty bed and an evidence bag on the nightstand.
I’m broken, and the pieces can stay where they fell. I don't have the strength to pick them up. “I want—no—I need you…” I try and fail to speak. “…to let me go.”
“I can’t do that, Conrad.” Agnes and her stubbornness.
“I want to die. Please… just let me die.” I tremble and shake in her lap, unable to control my sobs and whimpers.
“You don’t mean that,” she says, her voice wavering, afraid I'm serious.
I am.
“I’m fucking tired of this pain. I can’t take it anymore. We wasted so much time… It just wasn’t enough...” An agonizing cry tears out of me, filled with rage and grief. Over the wasted years we spend apart in our youth.
Make it stop, Belly, make it stop. I whisper into her sweater, sobbing until the shadows shift again. Agnes never once tries to pull away from our strange position. She holds me tightly and counts my breaths, making sure I’m not slipping into a panic attack.
“I just want her… Please, let me be with her.”
I close my eyes one more time and picture a future where I’m healed. A time when breathing comes easier and my eyes aren’t swollen shut from crying anymore. A time when I can shower and feed myself without help. When I can exist in society again without breaking down every minute of every day, missing her.
I hope he remembers to thank Agnes. I know Belly would be grateful too. Maybe that version of me exists somewhere in the future, but not now.
What I can’t picture is a day when I won’t miss her, when I won’t ache for the touch of her skin or the sound of her sweet loving words.
I will always love her. I will always need her. And I know I'll find her behind my lids, every time I close my eyes until the day I die.
"Goodbye, my love.
Until I’m with you again."
And I close my eyes.
