What Sarah Said
(inspired by "What Sarah Said, Deathcab for Cutie")
He stared blankly down at the specks of blood on his tennis shoes; his gaze was fixed upon the shock of red against white, and he could feel the tear streaks upon his cheeks began to dry. It left an uncomfortable itch beneath his eyes. His mind swirled with thoughts; many uncouth, many innocent. Many were in imitation of the horrors the night had held so far.
She had done it. Again.
Feeling his late lunch fight its way up his esophagus, he put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, attempting a deep breath. It merely choked itself into a muffled sob, and he placed his hands over his mouth, instead. His teeth bit angrily across his bottom lip, as if his own pain would make hers go away.
He tried to remind himself, for the fifteenth time that night. The task was becoming more and more difficult, as he weighed the magnitude of the situation in his fraying mind. It was killing him to remain silent; he felt as though perhaps the darkness of his cracked voice would shatter the spotlessness of the waiting room.
She had done it… Again.
His mind felt as if it were as nauseous as his stomach. His thoughts skipped around, mimicking a broken record. He attempted with feverish desperation to remember the essay he was supposed to be writing for his college English course. He tried with harsh realization to block out the image of the razor blade against her arm, and the words she had chosen to carve this time. Unto madness. It was true; she was driving him to madness. He was not sure how much longer he could live through her nightmares.
She… had done it… again…
He heard the pitter-patter of feet, scurrying around the waiting room. He knew there were others around him, but he refused to acknowledge their presence. Perhaps, he reckoned, there were even people waiting for his Sarah. Perhaps they knew, too, the… problem… she had acquired.
The problem had made her do it again…
A man, sitting next to him, shot out of his chair as a pretty nurse sauntered over to him, carrying a pink bundle. She had an excited smile on her face as she saw the man leap towards her, but there was an unmistakable twinge of remorse in her blue eyes. The man's hands were wringing in anticipation.
Perhaps this man had a problem, too.
He could not hear the conversation between the nurse and the man, though he certainly heard the anguished shock that escaped the man's lips. It was apparent that the man's wife had not lived through the labor; though, she had left her husband a legacy in a pink blanket.
Perhaps she would have the same problem as Sarah.
He almost wanted to reach out and touch the man, though he could not draw himself away from the image of Sarah's blood splattered across the once-white carpet of their apartment. It was the same red blood that now covered his tennis shoes. It was the same red blood that coated the metal of the razor blade that she had somehow found this time.
He damned himself for letting her get a hold of it.
There was another woman sitting beside him. She was beautiful, though lines were etched painfully onto her lovely face. She wore the same dried tears on her cheek, as was in keeping with the fashion of the waiting room. Her hands were folded harshly in her lap, and he could see her fingernails cursing half moons into her white skin.
He knew that soon this woman would have her own nurse.
But, he was thinking of what Sarah said.
Love was watching someone die tonight.