count to ten; a.i

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

It's been eleven years. Eleven years since you closed your eyes for the last time. Since the doctors rushed back in and unplugged you like you were a lamp whose lightbulb had faded to black.

I'm not okay.

It's been eleven years since I had to tell Amelia that her beloved father was gone forever. Since I had to gently rock Hugo to sleep even though I knew the next day he would wake up crying...

like he knew somehow that you were gone.

I'm not okay.

When Hugo was three years old he still couldn't walk or talk. We knew something was wrong with him but for the sake of Amelia I tried to keep it from her. I took him to a doctor and told myself that it would all be okay although I wanted to scream when I walked down those white empty corridors again.

I'm not okay.

He was diagnosed with a severe case of Cerebral Palsy, and to this day we still don't know whether he has a full understanding of who we are. He cannot speak.

I'm not okay.

Amelia is sixteen years old now, almost a woman. She feels her own emotions and has her own opinions and she's trying the best she can not to upset Hugo each day, even though whenever she thinks of you I hear her crying.

She's gone through so much and I feel like somehow it's all my fault. She doesn't have a father figure in her life and she conceals her scars like they're something to be ashamed of. I wish I could tell her it'll be okay, but I know that's false evidence.

I'm not okay.

Five years after your death I told myself it was abnormal that I wasn't moving on. That I still had pictures of you around the house and I still cried myself to sleep.

So I met someone online named Craig. He seemed nice, and understanding, unlike all the other men that turned me away with a whisk of a finger when they learned I was a widow. I met Craig at a nightclub and realised instantly that it was the wrong choice.

The whole night he spent trying to turn me on and get me drunk but nothing was working. Ever since you left every man has been a fragmented image of you, of your perfect self. They will never be you, though.

I'm not okay.

I was raped by him. In the back alley ways behind the club. I didn't tell anyone, ever.

I'm not okay.

I had to spoon-feed Hugo today. He smiled at me for the first time in what felt like fifty years. He looks too much like you.

I'm not okay.

Sometimes I think I should kill myself. 

I'm not okay. 

Sometimes I try to.

I'm not okay.

I can't cope without you, Ashton. Please come back.

I'm not okay.

Sometimes I start to cry. Heaving, sobbing, weeping. I do it when no one is around. Sometimes I can't stop, and I don't know what to do.

I'm not okay.

So I Count To Ten to try to stop the salty tears.