I come home late as usual. The only noisy thing in the living room is the fan, and I almost never hear the fan on. It takes a while for me to put down my bags for the most part because of all the paper work and medical files I have to review from work. For just a moment I’d like to forget that I have any work and just walk to the fridge and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
I think it’s stupid when people say that they think about their wife first thing coming home, because that just negates the fact that we’re selfish. Anyway, I was wondering how her day was, the moment I sat down at the table with my glass of orange juice. I’ll ask her when she wakes up in a couple of hours.
My eyes start to feel very heavy, so I make my way upstairs to get ready for bed. I enter the bathroom only to notice a sticky note on the mirror with a fairly long note written in red permanent marker. At this point, my stomach drops. I’m not sure what to think other than the fact that I have this overwhelming urge to read it, while at the same time coming up with an infinite supply of reasons why there would be a sticky note on the bathroom mirror and actually being terrified of reading it.
I only want to get the jist of the letter or maybe perhaps glancing at a word or phrase that will tell me the general theme of the entire sticky note, and fortunately for me, I did. But also, unfortunately for me, I wish I hadn’t seen it.
“…some of us aren’t able to cope with life any longer and have decided to take it. I love you Brendan. I have decided to take mine.”
My knees weaken as I jolt immediately afterwards towards our bedroom door. It’s locked. I manage, however, to unlock it since it is our bedroom door and we both have copies of the key. But the door still would not open. I shove the door using my body weight and I noticed that she put the bed up against the door. At this point I don’t really feel the tears running down my face as much as I feel the pain in my shoulder trying to bust the door open.
The door finally opens enough for me to squeeze my body through, knees are still weak. I stare at her body lying in bed, with the prescriptions piled up on the night stand. I crawl into bed with her one last time. I hold her. I scream. And I scream. And I scream.
There’s nothing worse than screaming only to hear complete silence after, as if no one heard it. Because no one did. I heard my scream, sure. But I also continued to hear the fan downstairs, which managed to win at being heard more than my tears.