A/N: Eesh. This is by far one of the most depressing stories I've ever written~ but it was challenging, and I like the way it turned out. Choppy, full of passion and confusion. I hope that you guys see it the same way. I'd LOVE feedback! (But so does any other author who posts on this site. Lol.) I can't promise anything on my other stories, this was for an assignment, and pretty much the only reason I was motivated. I am SO sorry to everyone who wants more, but my life is crazy and hectic right now... but this summer, I will go CRAZY writing. This week I'm going to do my best to read and review all of my faithful friends, such as OneSweetLove, Cupcake101, JadenInk, and especially Crystal-Chaos22! I'm so sorry guys. Forgive? Free smileys for reviews!! =DDDD

And without further ado:


Her fault.
I glance towards the kitchen, where she sits. Alone.
A flash of sandy, messy bedhead.
Cereal, spilling, laughter.
Wet, cold, pleading.
He was only three.
And then he's gone, and the sound startles me.
Could it have really only been weeks since that sound was a daily occurence?
I turn my head away from the kitchen, wishing that I could say something.
I love you.
But I couldn't, wouldn't, and neither would she.

Her fault.

I swallow hard, and run my tongue over my dry lips.
Dry, so dry.
Chapstick was upstairs.
I sigh and start to make my way up to the second floor, remembering when it was always a race up the steps.
Or how he used to cling to my leg, watching as I struggled to lift his weight and mine. The way he giggled with pleasure as I finally just tossed him over my shoulders.
His limp, wet body, so doll like and horrifyingly pale.

Her fault.

I scramble to clear my head, trying desperately to remember the purpose for my journey upstairs.
Dry, cracked lips.
I find myself in the bathroom, searching for relief.
Instead I find my razor and shaving cream, still out of place from the last time I'd shaved.
He had watched with the kind of fascination and innocence only a little boy could.
Naturally, one thing led to the other, and it became a shaving cream war.
I'd let him win.
And then, the way his pajamas clung to his frame, the way his lips were so blue.

Her fault.

I turn away, desperately trying to tune the voices out of my head.
Make them stop.
The pictures.
Please, please, stop.
I fall onto the toilet seat, glance at myself in the mirror.
Don't recognize the shadow of a man who stared back.
Deep, dark circles under his glassy and bloodshot eyes.
Messy, unclean stubble.
But it was apparent that he, the man in the mirror, was beyond caring.
I'm with you.
His eyes sweep down, down, down to the counter.
A ring.
I glance at mine, still faithfully on my ring finger.
Where it should be.
Where hers isn't.
I can't control the sudden rush of pain that envelops me, the way my stomach churns.
I hurry, open the toilet lid, and heave.
Tear off my ring.
Flush it.

Her fault.

I slam the bathroom door shut and sit on my unmade bed, rubbing my temples.
When was the last time I'd slept?
I couldn't remember.
But did it matter?
I threw my feet up and winced as they landed on something hard.
Reaching down, I pick up a Dr. Suess book.
Unknowingly I smile, remembering how he used to have me read it to him over and over.
And then, the way he would hold the book proudly upside down and recite the whole thing from memory.
Claiming to read.
The smile fades as I imagine him trying to call, but only finding the unforgiving water.
Unable to swim.
How we were too busy yelling to hear him anyways.
He would never learn how to read. Never.

Her fault.

I wildly get to my feet again, and fly down the stairs.
I need something, anything.
Help me forget.
She's still there, in the kitchen.
I miss you.
But instead of comforting her, wiping her tears... having her wipe mine... I look away.
No beer.
Car keys.
She doesn't even look up, doesn't even ask, doesn't even know.
Doesn't know how much it hurts me, how much I care.
How lost I am, how I'm the one actually drowning.

Her fault.

I quickly throw on shoes, a coat.
Glance back one more time, wishing I could just tell her how sorry I was, how much I regretted everything.
But I couldn't and didn't.
I open the door, not bothering to stop it from slamming.
Without opening the garage door, I get inside of my truck.
Roll down the windows.
Turn the car on.
Wait, just wait.
And as I'm sitting there, bawling, I understand.

My fault.


So, my cousin, Lizard, is working on the POV of the wife much like we've done for the story 'You're Too Late'. If you liked this story, check that one out.


Muchos Gracias!!