It only took me seconds to get to my wife and pull her from the depths of the water. It swirled and churned with the eddies of the wind.
I had been right behind her when she stumbled over the rock that sent her over the side of the fucking hill. I slid down the road that led me to the bottom, expecting to rush up to her when the rock stopped her downward trek. I hadn’t fucking anticipated the rock dislodging and for her to end up in the tributary, sucked under by the icy-cold mouth of its depths.
The events that followed were almost a blur, except when the emergency team took her from me. In that second, I became a living, breathing memory. I could not escape those moments. I felt like I was trapped inside of a fucking bottle with them, and I couldn’t find a way out.
My wife.
They took her from me.
My grandfather arriving, shooting anyone in his path that attempted to stop me from getting my heart to safety.
My wife.
My healing.
She wasn’t fucking responsive.
The blood.
Her head.
Mine.
Swirling.
Intertwining.
More blood than I had ever seen, soaking her nightgown, and not only from her head.
The rock she had rammed into had impaled her stomach, and no matter how big or small, it was a fucking rock, the equivalent of a solid fist.
My wife.
They attempted to rip her out of my arms.
It wasn’t until my great-uncle ordered me to release her so that she…shall be saved…that I relented. I gave over my heart to people who were skilled in healing.
Healing.
She was my saving grace. My miracle in the last second.
My healing.
I would be sick, so sick without her if—I stopped the fucking thought cold, standing, pacing the length of the hospital room.
My wife.
My wife wasn’t going anywhere without me.
She knew this.
I fucking knew this.
The door opened and my brother, Matteo, walked in. I caught a glance behind him before the door shut. Angelo was standing with his hand on his wife’s neck. She was crying.
Matteo’s eyes took me in, halting on the rings resting on the tip of my little finger.
My wife.
