I collapse, letting my knees buckle. I hit the floor with a loud crash, but it's quickly drowned out by my voice.

"You can't just be gone; I need you!"

The sound of my voice reverberating off the empty walls of our now-vacant apartment scares me more than you could ever know.

It's odd—I've never seen the walls so white. I've never heard it so quiet.

It terrifies me.

Empty; dead; -- I shiver once and clutch my arms tighter around myself—and cold.

…just like you.

I let out a humorless chuckle.

I pick myself up of the floor just as the last echoes of my shriek fade away.

"I need you…" I repeat, out of words and out of time.

And I do, I need you. But you aren't here and you never will be again. I'm alone—all fucking alone in this big apartment you always wanted. It's cold and I'm tired, but I have no place to go and I don't want to be here, but I can't leave. This is it, the last place I saw you; the last place I'll ever see you—you, alive and happy and glowing, not that cold dead thing that was at your funeral.

It couldn't have been you, whatever it was. You couldn't have ever been that cold or that still or that…

It wasn't you. I can't believe that. I have to keep you safe in my mind—maybe you're just at work or the store. Maybe you're off, somewhere else. Maybe you even left me. I'll believe anything, anything at all, as long as you exist. I just can't wrap my mind around a world without you in it.

I pause, staring out the window into the black you can only really get during the winter months.

You fucking left me, not just in my mind, for real. You didn't mean to, but that doesn't matter because you are gone—fucking gone!

I let out a little cry—part desperation, part pain.

My mother thinks I can just get up and move on, like you weren't my life. I can't just go and fucking do the things I used to.

Moving on feels a lot like giving up and I can't do that.

I can't just fucking accept this. I can't let it be real! I can't just fucking let you die, I can't just move on.

This was supposed to be my life; this little apartment was suppose to be were we'd raise our family.

How could this… why could this happen?

I should've done something. I shouldn't have let this happen, shouldn't have let you slip away from me. I should've known; I could've… I could've….

You looked fine! You smiled and laughed and you were just great.

No. No.


I'm pacing now—my hands running through my greasy hair. I haven't washed it… in a while.

I think its odd how word can take on an entirely new meaning. The word since, 'a while', before and after, all altered a little.

"Please, please, please. Whatever deity—whatever forces out there; please! You can't do this! You can't have him, he's mine!"

I sound weak and pathetic and the only response I get is the sound of the wind blowing against the plastic grocery bags at my feet.

I pause, my surroundings kicking in.

I'm screaming all alone in an empty apartment; I'm insane and pathetic and alone. I have no kids and no family on this side of the country. And no husband, just a newly-dug grave and some hospital bills to pay.

Oh god.


I'm crying and I feel a twinge of guilt. I didn't cry, not at all, when he died. And now, now I cry out of self-pity. I am fucking pathetic.

Pathetic. God-fucking-damnit.

How dare you? How could you just up and fucking die on me?

I need you! I can't just go and continue living alone. I've never been good alone and you knew that-- you fucking knew-- and you went and died anyways.

I know it's ridiculous to blame you, but I can't stop. I've gained momentum now—what's that thing you used to say? Objects in motion stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. That's what the fuck I am, a fucking object in motion and you aren't here to god-damn stop me!

"You bastard, you fucking bastard..." The words come out softer than intended. I think it's because no matter how badly I want to hate you I can't. I fucking love you. I love you with all my soul, even now, when you've ruined everything.

Even now that you've left me. Abandoned me, thrown me to the wolves.

"God!" I mean it as a swear, but it sets me thinking—there I go again, object in motion, unanchored and floating, kept going by sheer inertia. What the fuck has God done? All these people worshiping him and he can't be bothered to lift a fucking finger.

So maybe he's dead, like that philosopher said. He's dead and we killed him. Or maybe he's just around, too fucking busy. It doesn't matter either way, honestly. I don't care, because the fact is that you are and you matter to me much more than some hypothetical god.

I don't care. I don't care at all anymore. I slip to the floor again, falling farther this time, laying my head onto the wooden floors. That was one of the things you insisted on, 'Gotta have wood floors, I don't want you to spend all you're time vacuuming out the carpets when the little one spills.'

We didn't have a 'little one', but we had plans-- useless plans, just as useless as our non-existent child.

My hair fans out around my face and the wood is even colder than the room is. I'm shivering and crying, but it's doesn't matter.

I think that may be my new favorite phrase. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. None of it fucking matters one little bit.

I can't stop crying though, which seems silly. If none of it matters, why am I still crying?

I find I don't care enough to worry about it.

It sounds nice, going through life not caring. I could just lay here. Eventually the rent would run out and they'd come check on me, but that won't \be for months, I'm sure I'll have frozen to death by then…

I closed my eyes and waited patiently how everything to end.

Suddenly, this doesn't sound like such a brilliant plan. Maybe it was the cold, maybe the fact that dieing sounded a lot less glamorous after seeing you—it—at the funeral.

I don't think that was it though, I think it was that fact that the moment I closed my eyes I could see you, same as you were last time I saw you here, only you weren't smiling. You were frowning, giving me that same disappointed look you always did.

I stand up.

AN: I guess this requires a bit of explanation... I am still writing Coward, I promise! The first bit was written right after watching 'PS: I love you', hence all the angst. The last bit was after watching 'Girl, Interupted'... hence the angst.

Unbeta'd... yeah, that's why it's full of... well... never mind.

Please R&R... really, please! I have no idea if my begging does any good, but I'm always willing to try!