Choke

Dedicated to 1Republicislife184 and MissOneRepublic

Warning: many tears were shed in the production of this one shot. Read at your own risk.
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I see breakfast on the table the second I walk out the door of my bedroom. I didn't bother to even as much as brush my hair. I don't have the heart too, not after my life has went to hell.

I should do what I usually do to cope when I'm hurt, and write a song. But this is far too hard for that. There are no words, no melody I could create to ever take the pain away.

I plop down in a seat at the kitchen table. I grab a fork and lean my head on my other hand, my elbow propped on the table. I push the scrambled eggs around my plate. It's been two days, and I still can't eat a thing. My brain relives the horrific events everytime I close my eyes, making me cover my ears just like my little boy would if he were here. My heart won't let me forgive myself for not saving him; even if there was nothing I could do.

It would be easier to cry. But instead, I just sit and choke on the memories.

(Y/N) will never forgive me. She spoke to me once since it happened. One time! And that was to say, "Are you all right?"

The answer? No. My hands, my shirt, were covered in his warm but cooling blood. Copeland, my baby boy no older than four, who ran to the door to meet me every time I came home, will have his funeral take place next week.

I look toward the hall and see my wife staring at a picture. I stand up and walk toward her. "(Y/N)?" I ask. She just sniffs and hangs it back on the wall. Without another word, she looks at me like I'm the devil and walks out the front door.

I look down at my feet. Why? Why couldn't it have been me? I wanted it to be me from second one. Copeland was a perfect little angel, and he didn't deserve this. If this is somehow punishment for my sins, why couldn't God have taken my voice away? My house, my money, anything else but Copeland and (Y/N). Nothing else matters to me, just my wife and my baby. But now...

I look up to the picture on the wall. It's the three of us on Copeland's birthday. The little boy is in a chair in front of the cake, and (Y/N) and I are standing around him. We're all smiling. Will I ever do that again?

And I can't breathe as I choke on the memory.

I run to my room and slam the door behind me. (Y/N) has been sleeping in the spare bedroom, leaving the house, anything to get away from me; the man who let her son die. The man who should be dead.

Lord knows I'd cry if I was able, but it won't help me now, later, tomorrow, or any other day.

I call (Y/N). I need my wife. I need to cry. But everything I need is slipping from my once tight grip.

A wise man once said, "Sometimes it hurts less to let go than to hold on.", but what if you're bolted in? What if your only option is to hold on until your fingers are far too stiff to let go?

It goes straight to voice mail. I soak up every word she has her phone set up to say. After all, it may be the only way I will ever hear her voice again.

After the beep, I leave my message. "Hey, Baby. It's Ryan, though you probably already knew that. I just want to say that I'm here. I know that you probably hate me, and I understand. I hate myself for letting it happen to our baby. But if you ever need anything at all, I don't care what it is, I'll be right here. It just..." I take a deep breath before I begin to speak again. Even I can hear the tears choke me and strain my voice as I continue, "It feels like I lost you both. And I wish it would have been me. I wish I could have saved him, and it kills me that I couldn't. But please, Sweetheart, come home. I love you, now and forever. Bye, (Y/N)."