Page 76 of Downfall

I don’t remember the ride to the hospital. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe it’s better that I remember my last moments with her when it was just the two of us, her head on my shoulder, confessing that she never stopped loving me. It hurts more than remembering the wire cutters they used to free her, the tubes they stuck in her pale, almost translucent skin, the paddles they used to shock her heart, the pained screams that rubbed my throat raw. It hurts more to know she said it and I didn’t say it back, too stubborn to believe the world could take her from me, but at least that moment will always be ours. Not tainted by the paramedics cutting off her blood-soaked sweatshirt, their soothing voices doing nothing to calm me, or the squeaking of the wheels from the stretcher moving against the damp ground.

I do remember getting to the hospital. The memory of them wheeling her away, every inch of distance a stab to my heart, is burned into my mind. Then they stuck me in a waiting room.

Sir, you need to let us do our job. We’ll let you know when we have more information.

Sir, we’re going to have to call security.

I didn't care. I fought them with everything I had, demanding they let me go back there with her.

Sir, you’re bleeding. You need to get that checked out.

“My wife.”

I kept repeating it over and over as if those two words would be able to communicate the way she attached herself to my soul, to my very being. As if they could make them understand that she’s not just my other half, she’s everything. Every part of me belongs to her in a way I can’t describe. I pushed past them, knocking over carts and supplies, running past drawn curtains, until I smacked into the security guard they were threatening me with.

Which is where I currently am, being dragged by two men back to the waiting room, repeating, “She’s my fucking wife!”

They force me down into a chair by the shoulders, and one of them curses when he looks down and sees the blood soaking through my shirt and onto his arm. “Is this yours?” he asks, but I don’t respond.

“Shit,” the other one says. “His knuckles are bleeding too. He needs a room.”

“Thanks, Billy. I’ll take it from here.” A feminine voice, gentle but firm, floats through the room.

“Hey, Emory,” the man I bled on says in surprise. “Thanks for the offer, but he's been putting up a fight. I can’t leave him with you.”

“I understand,” she says delicately, “but he’s going to calm down now so we can take care of that gash. Isn’t he?”

I look up at her, her hazel eyes swirling with soft concern, and I nod slowly.

“Okay, well, we’ll be on standby,” the one she called Billy says. “Press the button if you have any issues.” With that, he and the other man release me and walk off down the hallway.

“Emory,” I plead as soon as they’re gone. “Let me see her. Please. I need to see her.”

“You need to have the glass removed from your knuckles and get that stitched up.” She points to my side where the blood has now completely soaked through my shirt. “You won’t be there for her when she wakes up if you bleed out.”

She’s right. I know she’s right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to give up. Skylar is here because of me. I feel it deep in my bones. She’s fighting for her life because of me.

My mom knew where she was, and even though I haven’t been able to really think about the implications of that, I know it somehow leads back to me.

Something warm grazes my arm, and I realize it’s Emory’s hand. “I’ve got her, Declan. We’re doing everything we can, but you have to let me get back to her. I can’t do that if you’re refusing to let us help you.”

Out of options, I stand up and follow her to a room, where she leaves me with another nurse who takes the glass out of my knuckles, bandages my fist and cleans the cut on my side before a fresh-faced doctor comes in. She has blonde hair that bounces as she walks and is way too perky for the middle of the night.

“Nasty bugger,” she says, her British accent cheery, as she takes in the abrasion. “Nothing a needle and thread can’t fix, though.” I don’t respond. I’m stone silent as she injects the lidocaine to numb the area. I don’t tell her it’s not necessary because I still can’t feel anything. I don’t flinch when she inserts the needle into my skin, and I don’t answer when she asks what happened. She eventually takes the hint, stops talking, and finishes her job, snapping off her gloves when she’s satisfied with her work.

“Teddy will give you instructions,” she says, a little less animated now. “Take care.”

Teddy starts rattling off care instructions, but I don’t hear a word he says. I’m too focused on the curtain that separates me from the rest of the emergency room. Somewhere, mere feet away, my wife is dying and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

The wall is cold, but I welcome it, pressing my stinging side into the partition, my legs splayed out in front of me. Some of the adrenaline is finally wearing off, along with the Lidocaine, and now the cut along my ribs is throbbing. It’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest, though. Allie and Ash got here a little while ago. They chose to sit on a couch instead of the floor. Emory pulled some strings and got us into a private waiting room. It’s been hours, but they still won’t tell me a fucking thing about my wife other than she’s in surgery.

I don’t care if anyone sees me losing it. Let them see the blood all over my shirt—hers and mine mixed together. Let them watch in horror as I slam my remaining good fist against the drywall. Let them stare as I bury my head in my hands and weep. I don’t give a shit.

Allie cries softly, thick tears tracking down her cheeks while Ash rubs circles on her back. It reminds me of the way I held Skylar during her panic attack the first time I drove her home. What if I never get to console her again, feel her skin beneath my fingers, or feel her heart beating rhythmically against my own as we face each other?

Standing up, I walk over to the other side of the room and pick up one of the cheap plastic chairs across from Allie and Ashton. I hurl it against the wall and it hits with a heavy thud, leaving behind a small indent.

“Dec,” Ashton whispers from where he’s sitting. He’s still rubbing Allie’s back.