Then, I return to his room.
I check the IV drip, adjust the monitor leads, and examine the bandages for bleed-through. I find none. These are all things the nurses can handle, but all things I’m doing anyway because walking away from this room feels impossible, and I don’t have the energy to unpack why.
I’m just about to leave again when his eyes open. Not all the way. Just enough. The pale blue irises I remember so well find me through the haze of anesthesia and painkillers, and I watch recognition flash through them before they close again.
He knows who I am.
He knew before the drugs pulled him back under. He knew, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t reach for a weapon or look upset or call out the name of someone who could save him from the woman standing over his bed.
Now he’s gone again, back under, and I’m standing alone in a hospital room at four in the morning with a man I should have let die but didn’t.
I’m not sure which one of us will pay for that first.
