Then she turns away.
"I'll come back later. To check on you. Give you your medication."
She's already moving toward the door.
"Try to sleep."
"Marina."
She pauses. Her hand on the doorframe. Her back to me.
"Thank you."
The words feel inadequate. Pathetic. A bandage on a wound that needs stitches.
But they're all I have.
She doesn't turn around.
"Don't thank me yet."
And then she's gone.
The door closes behind her. Not quite a slam. But close.
I stare at the ceiling.
The crack running from the corner toward the center.
The lavender smell that's everywhere. In the sheets. In the pillows. In the air itself.
Her.
I close my eyes.
The pain in my side is nothing compared to the pain in my chest.
Marina
I can't sleep.
I've been lying on the couch for three hours. Staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks in the plaster.
Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every car that passes on the street below sends my heart racing. Every shadow that moves across the window feels like a threat.
I keep thinking about the blood.
The blood on my hallway floor. The blood on my hands. The blood soaking through the towels I pressed against his wound.
I roll onto my side. Pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
My hand aches. A dull throb that pulses in time with my heartbeat. I must have strained it. Dragging him inside. Holding pressure on the wound. All those hours of gripping and pressing and fighting to keep him alive.
Why did I fight so hard?
The question won't leave me alone.
I could have called 911. Let the paramedics take him. Let the police ask their questions. Let the whole mess become someone else's problem.
