It's the same scene everytime I enter the sterile white room that always smells like cleaning products. The same cleaning products you used to use to clean up messes around our house. The hospital room is not very big and the only furniture in it is the bed and the most uncomfortable chair in the world. And there you are, dressed in a white hospital gown, lifeless on the bed. Beside you is several machines connected to you with various wires. Needles poked in your wrists and elbows. Strange wires running from your throat and through your nose. And that mask is placed over your face giving you breath, forcing you to live another day.

It's the same scene and I follow the same routine.

I pull the chair out so I'm sitting beside you. I stroke your soft brown hair for a while before opening up your favorite book, The Bible, and read you a passage. It doesn't last long. It never does because soon I'm choking on my own tears but I'm a man and men don't cry. Not in front of their moms. Not in front of their dads. And definitely not in front of their comatose wives but you make that so hard. The way you just lie there so weak and easily hurt.

I close the precious book and lay it beside you. Carefully, as if not to hurt you, I lay your hand on it. Slowly, I begin to talk about how my day went.

I quit drinking and haven't touched a bottle since your accident. I know you'll be proud because you always hated my nasty habit and because of it I got a job. I'm a schoolteacher- I know how you always loved kids and couldn't wait to have some of your own. Now you might not have the chance.

I wait to see if you reply.

You don't.

I continue telling you that I now go to church on a regular basis. You always got on to me about not going enough. The preacher is real nice too. He's always there offering a comforting hand when I need it. And he doesn't ever judge me when I cry, which is most of the time. He just nods sympathetic and reads some scripture before I head back here.


That used to be your name, remember? Before you became a hollow shell of your old self.

Melanie. The girl I used to dump all the time in highschool for pretty more popular girls. Remember that? There was Abigal, Ginger, Kat, and even Kelly, that stupid blond who can't uphold a conversation to save her life. It's funny though. I always ended up back to you and you always let me back in despite all the wrongs that I wasn't right for you. That I was only going to hurt you in the end.

Melanie. The young lady I married with hopes of having a big family and an 'apple pie life'. I still remember you walking down the isle, your arm around your father's as he's about to give you away. You were stunningly beautiful.

Melanie. The woman I had a fight with the morning of the accident. I was angry, stormed off in my car to go drink.

My Melanie.

You called a little after I left but I didn't answer. You left a voicemail asking that I called you back.

What did you want Melanie?

Were you calling to apologize?

Did you want me to stop by the store to pick up some milk before I got home?

Were you going to demand to know where I was at so you could stop me from getting drunk and doing something insanely stupid?

What did you want?

I got another call. This time it wasn't you and I answered. It was a stranger informing me that someone broke into our house and shot you. It missed anything vital but you had lost a lot of blood and slipped into a coma.

I rushed to the hospital breaking every law there was just trying to get to you. I don't know why. I couldn't see you until after surgery. So I waited. I waited three hours just so I could see you. When I did, my heart froze. You looked so young and vulnerable lying there on the bed all because I wasn't there to protect you. The doctors informed me that if you had woken up within three days of the accident then you'd make a full recovery.

That was nearly a month ago.

People had started to lose hope in you ever waking up. I hate to admit it but I am too. The doctors tell me the only reason you're heart is still beating is because of the machines and it's selfish of me to keep you trapped here with no escape. I finally accepted that. It took a long time but I have. I know you'll be proud because I am not the same man you married all those years ago. I broke all my bad habits but I was too late.

It's funny though. I always had a habit of hurting you. I never meant to but I always did. And I'm sorry.

There you go. It's not something I personally would read and uually I would never ever write something like this for several reasons. 1.) It's too sad with no closure at the end. Does she die? Does she wake up? 2.) It's kind of sappy and I'm not a big fan of sappy. But I decided I needed to branch out of my usual writing style and thus this was born. I do like some aspects of this though. I like the inner conflict the man is having at the sight of his wife on the hospital bed. He feels guilty for leaving and the shooter coming and shooting her. If I wrote this correctly then all of you should be in tears by now. If not, then I'm sorry for wasting your time.