wounds (oneshot)

The lights were on. You were home.

I stepped in. The house still felt so...oppressive.

I happened to glance at the tabletop where our pictures had once been. They were still there, but if not for what happened...you would've never allowed it to be like that. I picked up one of them facing the wrong direction, and it was then that I realised that I didn't remember the previous arrangement. You were always the meticulous one.

The proximity of the pictures to one another were a painful reminder of the gap that was roughly patched. One missing picture in the collection that hurt for us to see but hurt even more for us to see it gone.

I made my way towards the bedroom. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know how you would feel to see me. It hit me that I didn't even know how to face you. I don't know what has happened to us.

I twisted the doorknob.

You were sobbing, curled up in the corner of the room. Your swollen eyes, puffy face, unkempt hair. Struggling to even breathe through the tears.

We made eye contact. I struggled to find something to say, anything, but it I had been so long; too long. I no longer remembered what words comforted you best, or how to hold you when things were wrong.

I broke contact and walked into the bathroom, looking away as I closed the door. I slumped on the floor, relieving the day that shattered us. Of course, my pain would never be the same as yours. You were the one who experienced it all of it firsthand, facing so much terror in a time when you had so much hope. I wasn't even there with you.

I stepped out. My heart sank as I realised that you had already left. I wanted to apologise, but there was just no opportunity.

No, I just didn't take them. Keep this up any longer and we would never have another chance. I wasn't ready to let it go. But you might, and it hurt me to think that if that was ever the case, I had to be ready to let you go willingly. Yet, I couldn't stop myself from holding on to the shimmer of hope that you might not. That us opening up to each other instead of hiding our pain underneath our strong facades would take us back to where we started.

I searched for you, only to find an empty but neat house. A pang of guilt hit me as I realised that you still bothered with the home despite the heartbreak. I wish I had put in as much as effort as you did. Maybe it wouldn't have ended up like this.

I ventured out the unlocked front door. I mistook a child's playful shout as a harrowing scream and almost freaked out. I resolved to not let you cry alone again today.

I stepped into the dim stairwell, recognising your sobs despite them being disoriented by the echoes. Cautiously taking a few steps up towards you, we made contact once again.

You dropped your gaze back onto the picture clutched to your chest. A year ago, on this very day, you weren't holding a picture, but her cold and limp body.

I reach out for your hand as gently as I could. It hurt so bad to see you looking this fragile. It hurt even worse as I caressed your bleeding finger, which you had cut on the sharp edge of the cracked glass frame.

I slowly took the picture from you with a trembling hand. I remembered how emotional you were when we first received it. How you smiled so brightly when the doctor had told you that she was healthy, and you had done a great job. How we cuddled that night and you looked at me teary-eyed, saying, "We're having a baby", as if you still couldn't believe it after 3 months.

And how all that was brutally ripped from us 4 months later. You told me afterwards that I had taken your calls, only to refuse to listen to you saying that something wasn't right. You said that I had told you that I was busy; that my friend was in deep shit, and I had to help him out. Come to think of it now, I don't even remember what I had been busy with. What was deemed as so important then seemed so negligible now. All I remember now is your traumatised expression when I finally got to your side in the hospital. How much regret I felt the moment I saw you hugging her tight for the first and last time, heart-shattered and broken-willed.

I could've saved her if you had actually cared.

You were right. However, in that moment I was unable to empathise.

Stop dumping your pain on me, I'm devastated too, alright?

It escalated into intense screaming which I was too afraid to recollect. That day, I won the argument, but I lost you permanently.

In the months to come, I wreaked havoc on my own life. I just couldn't accept how you blamed me for it, as if I didn't share your grief, as if I intentionally meant for it to happen. At some point I started asking myself why this had happened. I knew deep down that you never deserved this. Did I bring this upon you? Could there truly be a different outcome if I had chosen to act differently? I then realised that you weren't blaming me, you were blaming yourself for what had happened. My heart shattered. Yet I was afraid to face you. I cowardly avoided the disappointment I have caused and left you to deal with all of it alone. I convinced myself that you hated me, and it was for the better that I didn't show up.

The long nights I spent drinking in a rented apartment dragged out into months. I remember calling you a few times in my drunken stupor. I hung up too fast each time, guilt-ridden. The days passed by too blurrily for me to make any effort to heal us. The wound got infected and rotted. I was worried when the pain would stop. That would mean that we were beyond saving.

I looked up at you again. I would never be able to bring our child back. I would never be able to give you the fairytale future we dreamt of back then. I would never be able to take all the pain away as if nothing ever happened. But through it all I realised that I couldn't bear to let you take all the pain alone again. I had made a mistake and hurt you and our child.

"It's going to sting a little, but could you give me a chance to heal the wound in us?"